GIFT   OF 
C.   F.   Hassler 


Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 


TALES     OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 


TALES 


OF    A 


WAY  SIDE    INN 


HENRY    WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW. 


With  Illustrations  by  John  Gilbert. 


BOSTON : 

TICKNOR     AND     FIELDS. 
1866. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1863,  by 

HENRY  WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS:  WELCH,  BIGELOW,  &  Co. 

CAMBRIDGE. 


CONTENTS. 


TALES     OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 
PRELUDE.  page 

THE  WAYSIDE  INN i 

THE  LANDLORD'S  TALE. 

PAUL  REVERE'S  RIDE .        .14 

INTERLUDE 21 

THE  STUDENT'S  TALE. 

THE  FALCON  OF  SER  FEDERIGO 24 

INTERLUDE 35 

THE  SPANISH  JEW'S  TALE. 

THE  LEGEND  OF  RABBI  BEN  LEVI            37 

INTERLUDE            41 

THE  SICILIAN'S  TALE. 

KING  ROBERT  OF  SICILY 43 

INTERLUDE    .        .        .        .        . 51 

THE  MUSICIAN'S  TALE. 

THE  SAGA  OF  KING  OLAF 53 

i.    THE  CHALLENGE  OF  THOR 53 

ii.    KING  OLAF'S  RETURN 55 

in.  THORA  OF  RIMOL 59 

iv.   QUEEN  SIGRID  THE  HAUGHTY 61 

v.  THE  SKERRY  OF  SHRIEKS 64 

vi.  THE  WRAITH  OF  ODIN      .        .        .        .  .        .68 

vir.  IRON-BEARD 71 

vin.   GUDRUN 76 

ix.  THANGBRAND  THE  PRIEST 78 


IV  CONTENTS. 

x.   RAUD  THE  STRONG .      •        •  8l 

xi.   BISHOP  SIGURD  AT  SALTEN  FIORD      ....  83 

xn.   KING  OLAF'S  CHRISTMAS 87 

xni.  THE  BUILDING  OF  THE  LONG  SERPENT       ...  90 

xiv.  THE  CREW  OF  THE  LONG  SERPENT  95 

xv.  A  LITTLE  BIRD  IN  THE  AIR 98 

xvi.   QUEEN  TH\RI  AND  THE  ANGELICA  STALKS     .        .        .  100 

xvii.   KING  SVEND  OF  THE  FORKED  BEARD          .        .        .  104 

xvni.   KING  OLAF  AND  EARL  SIGVALD 107 

xix.   KING  OLAF'S  WAR-HORNS 109 

xx.   EINAR  TAMBERSKELVER     .        .        .        .        .        .        .112 

xxi.   KING  OLAF'S  DEATH-DRINK          .....  115 

XYII.  THE  NUN  OF  NIDAROS      . 118 

INTERLUDE 122 

THE  THEOLOGIAN'S  TALE. 

TORQUEMADA .       .       .125 

INTERLUDE 134 

THE  POET'S  TALE. 

THE  BIRDS  OF  KILLINGWORTH         .        .  .        .136 

FINALE 145 

BIRDS    OF    PASSAGE. 

FLIGHT     THE     SECOND. 

THE  CHILDREN'S  HOUR    .        .        .  .     .        .....        .149 

ENCELADUS 151 

THE  CUMBERLAND 152 

SNOW-FLAKES .  155 

A  DAY  OF  SUNSHINE 156 

SOMETHING  LEFT  UNDONE  .        . 158 

WEARINESS 159 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Page 

I.     THE  WAYSIDE  INN i 

II.     THE  SPANISH  JEW  FROM  ALICANT.         .         .  9 

III.  PAUL  REVERE'S  RIDE 16 

"  Then  he  climbed  to  the  tower  of  the  church." 

IV.  THE  SAME 18 

"Now  he  patted  his  horse's  side." 

V.     RABBI  BEN  LEVI 38 

"  He  saw  the  Angel  of  Death  before  him  stand." 

VI.     KING  OLAF 72 

' '  Olaf  the  King,  one  summer  morn, 
Blew  a  blast  on  his  bugle-horn." 

VII.     THE  BUILDING  OF  THE  LONG  SERPENT      .         -91 

VIII.     THE  NUN  OF  NIDAROS 119 

IX.     SNOW-FLAKES 155 


PRELUDE. 


THE    WAYSIDE     INN. 


ONE  Autumn  night,  in  Sudbury  town, 
Across  the  meadows  bare  and  brown, 
The  windows  of  the  wayside  inn 
Gleamed  red  with  fire-light  through  the  leaves 
Of  woodbine,  hanging  from  the  eaves 
Their  crimson  curtains  rent  and  thin. 


TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

As  ancient  is  this  hostelry 

As  any  in  the  land  may  be, 

Built  in  the  old  Colonial  day, 

When  men  lived  in  a  grander  way, 

With  ampler  hospitality ; 

A  kind  of  old  Hobgoblin  Hall, 

Now  somewhat  fallen  to  decay, 

WTith  weather-stains  upon  the  wall, 

And  stairways  worn,  and  crazy  doors, 

And  creaking  and  uneven   floors, 

And  chimneys  huge,  and  tiled  and  tall. 

A  region  of  repose  it  seems, 

A  place  of  slumber  and  of  dreams, 

Remote  among  the  wooded  hills  ! 

For  there  no  noisy  railway  speeds, 

Its  torch-race  scattering  smoke  and  gleeds ; 

But  noon  and  night,  the  panting  teams 

Stop  under  the  great  oaks,  that  throw 

Tangles  of  light  and  shade  below, 

On  roofs  and  doors  and  window-sills. 

Across  the  road  the  barns  display 

Their  lines  of  stalls,  their  mows  of  hay, 

Through  the  wide  doors  the  breezes  blow, 

The  wattled  cocks  strut  to  and  fro, 

And,  half  effaced  by  rain  and  shine, 

The  Red  Horse  prances  on  the  sign. 

Round  this  old-fashioned,  quaint  abode 
Deep  silence  reigned,  save  when  a  gust 


THE    WAYSIDE    INN. 

Went  rushing  down  the  county  road, 
And  skeletons  of  leaves,  and  dust, 
A  moment  quickened  by  its  breath, 
Shuddered  and  danced  their  dance  of  death, 
And  through  the  ancient  oaks  o'erhead 
Mysterious  voices  moaned  and  fled. 

But  from  the  parlor  of  the  inn 

A  pleasant  murmur  smote  the  ear, 

Like  water  rushing  through  a  weir; 

Oft  interrupted  by  the  din 

Of  laughter  and  of  loud  applause, 

And,  in  each  intervening  pause, 

The  music  of  a  violin. 

The  fire-light,  shedding  over  all 

The  splendor  of  its  ruddy  glow, 

Filled  the  whole  parlor  large  and  low ; 

It  gleamed  on  wainscot  and  on  wall, 

It  touched  with  more  than  wonted  grace 

Fair  Princess  Mary's  pictured  face ; 

It  bronzed  the  rafters  overhead, 

On  the  old  spinet's  ivory  keys 

It  played  inaudible  melodies, 

It  crowned  the  sombre  clock  with  flame, 

The  hands,  the  hours,  the  maker's  name, 

And  painted  with  a  livelier  red 

The  Landlord's  coat-of-arms  again ; 

And,  flashing  on  the  window-pane, 

Emblazoned  with  its  light  and  shade 

The  jovial  rhymes,  that  still  remain, 

3 


TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

Writ  near  a  century  ago, 

By  the  great  Major  Molineaux, 

Whom  Hawthorne  has  immortal  made. 

Before  the  blazing  fire  of  wood 

Erect  the  rapt  musician  stood ; 

And  ever  and  anon  he  bent 

His  head  upon  his  instrument, 

And  seemed  to  listen,  till  he  caught 

Confessions  of  its  secret  thought,  — 

The  joy,  the  triumph,  the  lament, 

The  exultation  and  the  pain ; 

Then,  by  the  magic  of  his  art, 

He  soothed  the  throbbings  of  its  heart, 

And  lulled  it  into  peace  again. 

Around  the  fireside  at.  their  ease 
There  sat  a  group  of  friends,  entranced 
With  the  delicious  melodies ; 
Who  from  the  far-off  noisy  town 
Had  to  the  wayside  inn  come  down, 
To  rest  beneath  its  old  oak-trees. 
The  fire-light  on  their  faces  glanced, 
Their  shadows  on  the  wainscot  danced, 
And,  though  of  different  lands  and  speech, 
Each  had  his  tale  to  tell,  and  each 
Was  anxious  to  be  pleased  and  please. 
And  while  the  sweet  musician  plays, 
Let  me  in  outline  sketch  them  all, 
Perchance  uncouthly  as  the  blaze 


THE   WAYSIDE    INN. 

With  its  uncertain  touch  portrays 
Their  shadowy  semblance  on  the  wall. 

But  first  the  Landlord  will  I  trace; 

Grave  in  his  aspect  and  attire  ; 

A  man  of  ancient  pedigree, 

A  Justice  of  the  Peace  was  he, 

Known  in  all  Sudbury  as  "The  Squire." 

Proud  was  he  of  his  name  and  race, 

Of  old  Sir  William  and  Sir  Hugh, 

And  in  the  parlor,  full  in  view, 

His  coat-of-arms,  well  framed  and  glazed, 

Upon  the  wall  in  colors  blazed ; 

He  beareth  gules  upon  his  shield, 

A  chevron  argent  in  the  field, 

With  three  wolf's  heads,  and  for  the  crest 

A  Wyvern  part-per-pale  addressed 

Upon  a  helmet  barred  ;  below 

The  scroll  reads,  "  By  the  name  of  Howe." 

And  over  this,  no  longer  bright, 

Though  glimmering  with  a  latent  light, 

Was  hung  the  sword  his  grandsire  bore, 

In  the  rebellious  days  of  yore, 

Down  there  at  Concord  in  the  fight. 

A  youth  was  there,  of  quiet  ways, 

A  Student  of  old  books  and  days, 

To  whom  all  tongues  and  lands  were  known, 

And  yet  a  lover  of  his  own ; 

WTith  many  a  social  virtue  graced, 


TALES    OF    A   WAYSIDE    INN. 

And  yet  a  friend  of  solitude ; 

A  man  of  such  a  genial  mood 

The  heart  of  all  things  he  embraced, 

And  yet  of  such  fastidious   taste, 

He  never  found  the  best  too  good. 

Books  were  his  passion  and  delight, 

And  in  his  upper  room  at  home 

Stood  many  a  rare  and  sumptuous  tome, 

In  vellum  bound,  with  gold  bedight, 

Great  volumes  garmented  in  white, 

Recalling  Florence,  Pisa,  Rome. 

He  loved  the  twilight  that  surrounds 

The  border-land  of  old  romance ; 

Where  glitter  hauberk,  helm,  and  lance, 

And  banner  waves,  and  trumpet  sounds, 

And  ladies  ride  with  hawk  on  wrist, 

And  mighty  warriors  sweep  along, 

Magnified  by  the  purple  mist, 

The  dusk  of  centuries  and  of  song. 

The  chronicles  of  Charlemagne, 

Of  Merlin  and  the  Mort  d'Arthure, 

Mingled  together  in  his  brain 

With  tales  of  Flores  and  Blanchefleur, 

Sir  Ferumbras,  Sir  Eglamour, 

Sir  Launcelot,  Sir  Morgadour, 

Sir  Guy,  Sir  Bevis,   Sir  Gawain. 

A  young  Sicilian,  too,  was  there ;  — 
In  sight  of  Etna  born  and  bred, 
Some  breath  of  its  volcanic  air 

6 


THE    WAYSIDE    INN. 

Was  glowing  in  his  heart  and  brain, 

And,  being  rebellious  to  his  liege, 

After  Palermo's  fatal  siege, 

Across  the  western  seas  he  fled, 

In  good  King  Bomba's  happy  reign. 

His  face  was  like  a  summer  night, 

All  flooded  with  a  dusky  light; 

His  hands  were  small ;  his  teeth  shone  white 

As  sea-shells,  when  he  smiled  or  spoke ; 

His  sinews  supple  and  strong  as  oak  ; 

Clean  shaven  was  he  as  a  priest, 

Who  at  the  mass  on  Sunday  sings, 

Save  that  upon  his  upper  lip 

His  beard,  a  good  palm's  length  at  least, 

Level  and  pointed  at  the  tip, 

Shot  sideways,  like  a  swallow's  wings. 

The  poets  read  he  o'er  and  o'er, 

And  most  of  all  the  Immortal  Four 

Of  Italy ;  and  next  to  those, 

The  story-telling  bard  of  prose, 

Who  wrote  the  joyous  Tuscan  tales 

Of  the  Decameron,  that  make 

Fiesole's  green  hills  and  vales 

Remembered  for  Boccaccio's  sake. 

Much  too  of  music  was  his  thought ; 

The  melodies  and  measures  fraught 

With  sunshine  and  the  open  air, 

Of  vineyards  and  the  singing  sea 

Of  his  beloved  Sicily ; 

And  much  it  pleased  him  to  peruse 


TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

The  songs  of  the  Sicilian  muse,— 

Bucolic  songs  by  Meli  sung 

In  the  familiar  peasant  tongue, 

That  made  men  say,  "  Behold  !  once  more 

The  pitying  gods  to  earth  restore 

Theocritus  of  Syracuse  !  " 

A  Spanish  Jew  from  Alicant 

With  aspect  grand  and  grave  was  there ; 

Vender  of  silks  and  fabrics  rare, 

And  attar  of  rose  from  the  Levant. 

Like  an  old  Patriarch  he  appeared, 

Abraham  or  Isaac,  or  at  least 

Some  later  Prophet  or  High-Priest ; 

With  lustrous  eyes,  and  olive  skin, 

And,  wildly  tossed  from  cheeks  and  chin, 

The  tumbling  cataract  of  his  beard. 

His  garments  breathed  a  spicy  scent 

Of  cinnamon  and  sandal  blent, 

Like  the  soft  aromatic  gales 

That  meet  the  mariner,  who  sails 

Through  the  Moluccas,  and  the  seas 

That  wash  the  shores  of  Celebes. 

All  stories  that  recorded  are 

By  Pierre  Alphonse  he  knew  by  heart, 

And  it  was  rumored  he  could  say 

The  Parables  of  Sandabar, 

And  all  the  Fables  of  Pilpay, 

Or  if  not  all,  the  greater  part ! 

Well  versed  was  he  in  Hebrew  books, 


THE    WAYSIDE    INN. 


Talmud  and  Targum,  and  the  lore 

Of  Kabala ;  and  evermore 

There  was  a  mystery  in  his  looks ; 

His  eyes  seemed  gazing  far  away, 

As  if  in  vision  or  in  trance 

He  heard  the  solemn  sackbut  play, 

And  saw  the  Jewish  maidens  dance. 


TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

A  Theologian,  from  the  school 

Of  Cambridge  on  the  Charles,  was  there ; 

Skilful  alike  with  tongue  and  pen, 

Ke  preached  to  all  men  everywhere 

The  Gospel  of  the  Golden  Rule, 

The  New  Commandment  given  to  men, 

Thinking  the  deed,  and  not  the  creed, 

Would  help  us  in  our  utmost  need. 

With  reverent  feet  the  earth  he  trod, 

Nor  banished  Nature  from  his  plan, 

But  studied  still  with  deep  research 

To  build  the  Universal  Church, 

Lofty  as  is  the  love  of  God, 

And  ample  as  the  wants  of  man. 

A  Poet,  too,  was  there,  whose  verse 

Was  tender,  musical,  and  terse ; 

The  inspiration,  the  delight, 

The  gleam,  the  glory,  the  swift  flight, 

Of  thoughts  so  sudden,  that  they  seem 

The  revelations  of  a  dream, 

All  these  were  his ;  but  with  them  came 

No  envy  of  another's  fame  ; 

He  did  not  find  his  sleep  less  sweet 

For  music  in  some  neighboring  street, 

Nor  rustling  hear  in  every  breeze 

The  laurels  of  Miltiades. 

Honor  and  blessings  on  his  head 

While  living,  good  report  when  dead, 

Who,  not  too  eager  for  renown, 

Accepts,  but  does  not  clutch,  the  crown  ! 


THE    WAYSIDE    INN. 

Last  the  Musician,  as  he  stood 

Illumined  by  that  fire  of  wood ; 

Fair-haired,  blue-eyed,  his  aspect  blithe, 

His  figure  tall  and  straight  and  lithe, 

And  every  feature  of  his  face 

Revealing  his  Norwegian  race ; 

A  radiance,  streaming  from  within, 

Around  his  eyes  and  forehead  beamed, 

The  Angel  with  the  violin, 

Painted  by  Raphael,  he  seemed. 

He  lived  in  that  ideal  world 

Whose  language  is  not  speech,  but  song; 

Around  him  evermore  the  throng 

Of  elves  and  sprites  their  dances  whirled ; 

The  Stromkarl  sang,  the  cataract  hurled 

Its  headlong  waters  from  the  height ; 

And  mingled  in  the  wild  delight 

The  scream  of  sea-birds  in  their  flight, 

The  rumor  of  the  forest  trees, 

The  plunge  of  the  implacable  seas, 

The  tumult  of  the  wind  at  night, 

Voices  of  eld,  like  trumpets  blowing, 

Old  ballads,  and  wild  melodies 

Through  mist  and  darkness  pouring  forth, 

Like  Elivagar's  river  flowing 

Out  of  the  glaciers  of  the  North. 

The  instrument  on  which  he  played 
Was  in  Cremona's  workshops  made, 
By  a  great  master  of  the  past, 


TALES    OF    A   WAYSIDE    INN. 

Ere  yet  was  lost  the  art  divine ; 

Fashioned  of  maple  and  of  pine, 

That  in  Tyrolian  forests  vast 

Had  rocked  and  wrestled  with  the  blast : 

Exquisite  was  it  in  design, 

Perfect  in  each  minutest  part, 

A  marvel  of  the  lutist's  art  ; 

And  in  its  hollow  chamber,  thus, 

The  maker  from  whose  hands  it  came 

Had  written  his  unrivalled  name,  — 

"Antonius  Stradivarius." 

And  when  he  played,  the  atmosphere 
Was  filled  with  magic,  and  the  ear 
Caught  echoes  of  that  Harp  of  Gold, 
Whose  music  had  so  weird  a  sound, 
The  hunted  stag  forgot  to  bound, 
The  leaping  rivulet  backward  rolled, 
The  birds  came  down  from  bush  and  tree, 
The  dead  came  from  beneath  the  sea, 
The  maiden  to  the  harper's  knee  ! 

The  music  ceased ;  the  applause  was  loud, 
The  pleased  musician  smiled  and  bowed ; 
The  wood-fire  clapped  its  hands  of  flame, 
The  shadows  on  the  wainscot  stirred, 
And  from  the  harpsichord  there  came 
A  ghostly  murmur  of  acclaim, 
A  sound  like  that  sent  down  at  night 
By  birds  of  passage  in  their  flight, 
From  the  remotest  distance  heard. 


THE    WAYSIDE    INN. 

Then  silence  followed ;  then  began 
A  clamor  for  the  Landlord's  tale,  — 
The  story  promised  them  of  old, 
They  said,  but  always  left  untold  ; 
And  he,  although  a  bashful  man, 
And  all  his  courage  seemed  to  fail, 
Finding  excuse  of  no  avail, 
Yielded ;  and  thus  the  story  ran. 


THE    LANDLORD'S    TALE. 

PAUL  REVERE'S  RIDE. 

LISTEN,  my  children,  and  you  shall  hear 
Of  the  midnight  ride  of  Paul  Revere, 
On  the  eighteenth  of  April,  in  Seventy-five ; 
Hardly  a  man  is  now  alive 
Who  remembers  that  famous  day  and  year. 

He  said  to  his  friend,  "  If  the  British  march 
By  land  or  sea  from  the  town  to-night, 
Hang  a  lantern  aloft  in  the  belfry  arch 
Of  the  North  Church  tower  as  a  signal  light,  — 
One,  if  by  land,  and  two,  if  by  sea ; 
And  I  on  the  opposite  shore  will  be, 
Ready  to  ride  and  spread  the  alarm 
Through  every  Middlesex  village  and  farm, 
For. the  country-folk  to  be  up  and  to  arm." 

Then  he  said,  "  Good  night ! "  and  with  muffled  oar 
Silently  rowed  to  the  Charlestown  shore, 
Just  as  the  moon  rose  over  the  bay, 
Where  swinging  wide  at  her  moorings   lay 
The  Somerset,  British  man-of-war ; 


PAUL    REVERES    RIDE. 

A  phantom  ship,  with  each  mast  and  spar 
Across  the  moon  like  a  prison  bar, 
And  a  huge  black  hulk,  that  was  magnified 
By  its  own  reflection  in  the  tide. 

Meanwhile,  his  friend,  through  alley  and  street, 
Wanders  and  watches  with  eager  ears, 
Till  in  the  silence  around  him  he  hears 
The  muster  of  men  at  the  barrack  door, 
The  sound  of  arms,  and  the  tramp  of  feet, 
And  the  measured  tread  of  the  grenadiers, 
Marching  down  to  their  boats  on  the  shore. 

Then  he  climbed  to  the  tower  of  the  church, 
Up  the  wooden  stairs,  with  stealthy  tread, 
To  the  belfry-chamber  overhead, 
And  startled  the  pigeons  from  their  perch 
On  the  sombre  rafters,  that  round  him  made 
Masses  and  moving  shapes  of  shade,  — 
Up  the  trembling  ladder,  steep  and  tall, 
To  the  highest  window  in  the  wall, 
Where  he  paused  to  listen  and  look  down 
A  moment  on  the  roofs  of  the  town, 
And  the  moonlight  flowing  over  all. 

Beneath,  in  the  churchyard,  lay  the  dead, 
In  their  night-encampment  on  the  hill, 
Wrapped  in  silence  so  deep  and  still 
That  he  could  hear,  like  a  sentinel's  tread, 
The  watchful  night-wind,  as  it  went 


TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 


Creeping  along  from  tent  to  tent, 

And  seeming  to  whisper,  "  All  is  well ! " 

A  moment  only  he  feels  the  spell 

Of  the  place  and  the  hour,  and  the  secret  dread 

Of  the  lonely  belfry  and  the  dead ; 

For  suddenly  all  his  thoughts  are  bent 

On  a  shadowy  something  far  away, 

16 


PAUL  REVERE'S  RIDE. 

Where  the  river  widens  to  meet  the  bay,  — 
A  line  of  black  that  bends  and  floats 
On  the  rising  tide,  like  a  bridge  of  boats. 

Meanwhile,  impatient  to  mount  and  ride, 
Booted  and  spurred,  with  a  heavy  stride 
On  the  opposite  shore  walked  Paul   Revere. 
Now  he  patted  his  horse's  side, 
Now  gazed  at  the  landscape  far  and  near, 
Then,  impetuous,  stamped  the  earth, 
And  turned  and  tightened  his  saddle-girth  ; 
But  mostly  he  watched  with  eager  search 
The  belfry-tower  of  the  Old  North  Church, 
As  it  rose  above  the  graves  on  the  hill, 
Lonely  and  spectral  and  sombre  and  still. 
And  lo  !  as  he  looks,  on  the  belfry's  height 
A  glimmer,  and  then  a  gleam  of  light ! 
He  springs  to  the  saddle,  the  bridle  he  turns, 
But  lingers  and  gazes,  till  full  on  his  sight 
A  second  lamp  in  the  belfry  burns  ! 

A  hurry  of  hoofs  in  a  village  street, 

A  shape  in  the  moonlight,  a  bulk  in  the  dark, 

And  beneath,  from  the  pebbles,  in  passing,  a  spark 

Struck  out  by  a  steed  flying  fearless  and  fleet ; 

That  was  all !     And  yet,  through  the  gloom  and  the  light, 

The  fate  of  a  nation  was  riding  that  night ; 

And  the  spark  struck  out  by  that  steed,  in  his  flight, 

Kindled  the  land  into  flame  with  its  heat. 

3  17 


TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 


He  has  left  the  village  and  mounted  the  steep, 
And  beneath  him,  tranquil  and  broad  and  deep, 


10 


PAUL  REVERE'S  RIDE. 

Is  the  Mystic,  meeting  the  ocean  tides ; 
And  under  the  alders,  that   skirt  its  edge,         % 
Now  soft  on  the  sand,  now  loud  on  the  ledge, 
Is  heard  the  tramp  of  his  steed  as  he  rides. 

It  was  twelve  by  the  village  clock 

When  he  crossed  the  bridge  into  Medford  town. 

He  heard  the  crowing  of  the  cock, 

And  the  barking  of  the  farmer's  dog, 

And  felt  the  damp  of  the  river  fog, 

That  rises  after  the  sun  goes  down. 

It  was  one  by  the  village  clock 

When  he  galloped  into  Lexington. 

He  saw  the  gilded  weathercock 

Swim  in  the  moonlight  as  he  passed, 

And  the  meeting-house  windows,  blank  and  bare, 

Gaze  at  him  with  a  spectral  glare, 

As  if  they  already  stood  aghast 

At  the  bloody  work  they  would  look  upon. 

It  was  two  by  the  village  clock 
When  he  came  to  the  bridge  in  Concord  town. 
He  heard  the  bleating  of  the  flock, 
And  the  twitter  of  birds  among  the  trees, 
And  felt  the  breath  of  the  morning  breeze 
Blowing  over  the  meadows  brown. 
And  one  was  safe  and  asleep  in  his  bed 
Who  at  the  bridge  would  be  first  to  fall, 
Who  that  day  would  be  lying  dead, 
Pierced  by  a  British  musket-ball. 
19 


*       TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

You  know  the  rest.     In  the  books  you  haVe  read, 
How  the  British  Regulars  fired  and  fled,  — 
How  the  farmers  gave  them  ball  for  ball, 
From  behind  each  fence  and  farm-yard  wall, 
Chasing  the  red-coats  down  the  lane, 
Then  crossing,  the  fields  to  emerge  again 
Under  the  trees  at  the  turn  of  the  road, 
And  only  pausing  to  fire  and  load. 

So  through  the  night  rode  Paul  Revere ; 

And  so  through  the  night  went  his  cry  of  alarm 

To  every  Middlesex  village  and  farm,  — 

A  cry  of  defiance  and  not  of  fear, 

A  voice  in  the  darkness,  a  knock  at  the  door, 

And  a  word  that  shall  echo  forevermore ! 

For,  borne  on  the  night-wind  of  the  Past, 

Through  all  our  history,  to  the  last, 

In  the  hour  of  darkness  and  peril  and  need, 

The  people  will  waken  and  listen  to  hear 

The  hurrying  hoof-beats  of  that  steed, 

And  the  midnight  message  of  Paul  Revere. 


INTERLUDE. 

THE  Landlord  ended  thus  his   tale, 
Then,  rising,  took  down  from  its  nail 
The  sword  that  hung  there,  dim  with  dust, 
And  cleaving  to  its  sheath  with   rust, 
And  said,  "This  sword  was  in  the  fight." 
The  Poet  seized  it,  and  exclaimed, 
"  It  is  the  sword  of  a  good  knight, 
Though  homespun  was  his  coat-of-mail ; 
What  matter  if  it  be  not  named 
Joyeuse,  Colada,  Durindale, 
Excalibar,  or  Aroundight, 
Or  other  name  the  books  record  ? 
Your  ancestor,  who  bore  this  sword 
As  Colonel  of  the  Volunteers, 
Mounted  upon  his  old  gray  mare, 
Seen  here  and  there  and  everywhere, 
To  me  a  grander  shape  appears 
Than  old  Sir  William,  or  what  not, 
Clinking  about  in  foreign  lands 
With  iron  gauntlets  on  his  hands, 
And  on  his  head  an  iron  pot ! " 


TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

All  laughed ;  the  Landlord's  face  grew  red 
As  his  escutcheon  on  the  wall ; 
He  could  not  comprehend  at  all 
The  drift  of  what  the  Poet  said  ; 
For  those  who  had  been  longest  dead 
Were  always  greatest  in  his  eyes  ; 
And  "he  was  speechless  with  surprise 
To  see  Sir  William's  plumed  head 
Brought  to  a  level  with  the  rest, 
And  made  the  subject  of  a  jest. 

And  this  perceiving,  to  appease 

The  Landlord's  wrath,  the  others'  fears, 

The  Student  said,  with  careless  ease, 

"  The  ladies  and  the  cavaliers, 

The  arms,  the  loves,  the  courtesies, 

The  deeds  of  high  emprise,  I  sing ! 

Thus  Ariosto  says,  in  words 

That  have  the  stately  stride  and  ring 

Of  armed  knights  and  clashing  swords. 

Now  listen  to  the  tale  I  bring ; 

Listen  !  though  not  to  me  belong 

The  flowing  draperies  of  his  song, 

The  words  that  rouse,  the  voice  that  charms. 

The  Landlord's  tale  was  one  of  arms, 

Only  a  tale  of  love  is  mine, 

Blending  the  human  and  divine, 

A  tale  of  the  Decameron,  told 

In  Palmieri's  garden  old, 

By  Fiarnetta,  laurel-crowned, 


INTERLUDE. 

While  her  companions  lay  around, 
And  heard  the  intermingled  sound 
Of  airs  that  on  their  errands   sped, 
And  wild  birds  gossiping  overhead, 
And  lisp  of  leaves,  and  fountain's  fall, 
And  her  own  voice  more  sweet  than  all, 
Telling  the  tale,  which,  wanting  these, 
Perchance  may  lose  its  power  to  please." 


THE    STUDENT'S     TALE. 

THE    FALCON    OF    SER    FEDERIGO. 

ONE  summer  morning,  when  the  sun  was  hot, 
Weary  with  labor  in  his  garden-plot, 
On  a  rude  bench  beneath  his  cottage  eaves, 
Ser  Federigo  sat  among  the  leaves 
Of  a  huge  vine,  that,  with  its  arms  outspread, 
Hung  its  delicious  clusters  overhead. 
Below  him,  through  the  lovely  valley,  flowed 
The  river  Arno,  like  a  winding  road, 
And  from  its  banks  were  lifted  high  in  air 
The  spires  and  roofs  of  Florence  called  the  Fair; 
To  him  a  marble  tomb,  that  rose  above 
His  wasted  fortunes  and  his  buried  love. 
For  there,  in  banquet  and  in  tournament, 
His  wealth  had  lavished  been,  his  substance  spent, 
To  woo  and  loose,  since  ill  his  wooing  sped, 
Monna  Giovanna,  who  his   rival  wed, 
Yet  ever  in  his  fancy  reigned  supreme, 
The  ideal  woman  of  a  young  man's  dream. 

Then  he  withdrew,  in  poverty  and  pain, 

To  this  small  farm,  the  last  of  his  domain, 

24 


THE    FALCON    OF    SER    FEDERIGO. 

His  only  comfort  and  his  only  care 

To  prune  his  vines,  and  plant  the  fig  and  pear; 

His  only  forester  and  only  guest 

His  falcon,  faithful  to  him,  when  the  rest, 

Whose  willing  hands  had  found  so  light  of  yore 

The  brazen  knocker  of  his  palace  door, 

Had  now  no  strength  to  lift  the  wooden  latch, 

That  entrance  gave  beneath  a  roof  of  thatch. 

Companion  of  his  solitary  ways, 

Purveyor  of  his  feasts  on  holidays, 

On  him  this  melancholy  man  bestowed 

The  love  with  which  his  nature  overflowed. 

And  so  the  empty-handed  years  went  round, 
Vacant,  though  voiceful  with  prophetic  sound, 
And  so,  that  summer  morn,  he  sat  and  mused 
With  folded,  patient  hands,  as  he  was  used, 
And  dreamily  before  his  half-closed  sight 
Floated  the  vision  of  his  lost  delight. 
Beside  him,  motionless,  the  drowsy  bird 
Dreamed  of  the  chase,  and  in  his  slumber  heard 
The  sudden,  scythe-like  sweep  of  wings,  that  dare 
The  headlong  plunge  thro'  eddying  gulfs  of  air, 
Then,  starting  broad  awake  upon  his  perch, 
Tinkled  his  bells,  like  mass-bells  in  a  church, 
And,  looking  at  his  master,  seemed  to  say, 
"Ser  Federigo,  shall  we  hunt  to-day? 

Ser  Federigo  thought  not  of  the  chase ; 
The  tender  vision  of  her  lovely  face, 

4  25 


TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

I  will  not  say  he  seems  to  see,  he  sees 

In  the  leaf-shadows  of  the  trellises, 

Herself,  yet  not  herself;  a  lovely  child 

With  flowing  tresses,  and  eyes  wide  and  wild, 

Coming  undaunted  up  the  garden  walk, 

And  looking  not  at  him,  but  at  the  hawk. 

"  Beautiful  falcon  ! "  said  he,   "  would  that  I 

Might  hold  thee  on  my  wrist,  or  see  thee  fly ! " 

The  voice  was  hers,  and  made  strange  echoes  start 

Through  all  the  haunted  chambers  of  his  heart, 

As  an  seolian  harp  through  gusty  doors 

Of  some  old  ruin  its  wild  music  pours. 

"Who  is  thy  mother,  my  fair  boy?"  he  said, 
His  hand  laid  softly  on  that  shining  head. 
"  Monna  Giovanna.  —  Will  you  let  me  stay 
A  little  while,  and  with  your  falcon  play? 
We  live  there,  just  beyond  your  garden  wall, 
In  the  great  house  behind  the  poplars  tall." 

So  he  spake  on ;  and  Federigo  heard 
As  from  afar  each  softly  uttered  word, 
And  drifted  onward  through  the  golden  gleams 
And  shadows  of  the  misty  sea  of  dreams, 
As  mariners  becalmed  through  vapors  drift, 
And  feel  the  sea  beneath  them  sink  and  lift, 
And  hear  far  off  the  mournful  breakers  roar, 
And  voices  calling  faintly  from  the  shore ! 
Then,  waking  from  his  pleasant  reveries, 
He  took  the  little  boy  upon  his   knees, 
26 


THE    FALCON    OF    SER    FEDERIGO. 

And  told  him  stories  of  his  gallant  bird, 
Till  in  their  friendship  he  became  a  third. 

Monna  Giovanna,  widowed  in  her  prime, 

Had  come  with  friends  to  pass  the  summer  time 

In  her  grand  villa,  half-way  up  the  hill, 

O'erlooking  Florence,  but  retired  and  still ; 

With  iron  gates,  that  opened  through  long  lines 

Of  sacred  ilex  and  centennial  pines, 

And  terraced  gardens,  and  broad  steps  of  stone, 

And  sylvan  deities,  with  moss  o'ergrown, 

And  fountains  palpitating  in  the  heat, 

And  all  Val  d'Arno  stretched  beneath  its  feet. 

Here  in  seclusion,  as  a  widow  may, 

The  lovely  lady  whiled  the  hours  away, 

Pacing  in  sable  robes  the  statued  hall, 

Herself  the  stateliest  statue  among  all, 

And  seeing  more  and  more,  with  secret  joy, 

Her  husband  risen  and  living  in  her  boy, 

Till  the  lost  sense  of  life  returned  again, 

Not  as  delight,  but  as  relief  from  pain. 

Meanwhile  the  boy,  rejoicing  in  his  strength, 
Stormed  down  the  terraces  from  length  to  length; 
The  screaming  peacock  chased  in  hot  pursuit, 
And  climbed  the  garden  trellises  for  fruit. 
But  his  chief  pastime  was  to  watch  the  flight 
Of  a  gerfalcon,  soaring  into  sight, 
Beyond  the  trees  that  fringed  the  garden  wall, 
Then  downward  stooping  at  some  distant  call  ; 
27 


TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

And  as  he  gazed  full  often  wondered  he 
Who  might  the  master  of  the  falcon  be, 
Until  that  happy  morning,  when  he  found 
Master  and  falcon  in  the  cottage  ground. 

And  now  a  shadow  and  a  terror  fell 

On  the  great  house,  as  if  a  passing-bell 

Tolled  from  the  tower,  and  filled  each  spacious  room 

With  secret  awe,  and  preternatural  gloom  ; 

The  petted  boy  grew  ill,  and  day  by  day 

Pined  with  mysterious  malady  away. 

The  mother's  heart  would  not  be  comforted ; 

Her  darling  seemed  to  her  already  dead, 

And  often,  sitting  by  the  sufferer's  side, 

"  What  can  I  do  to  comfort  thee  ? "  she  cried. 

At  first  the  silent  lips  made  no  reply, 

But,  moved  at  length  by  her  importunate  cry, 

"Give  me,"  he  answered,  with  imploring  tone, 

"  Ser  Federigo's  falcon  for  my  own ! " 

No  answer  could  the  astonished  mother  make ; 
How  could  she  ask,  e'en  for  her  darling's  sake, 
Such  favor  at  a  luckless  lover's  hand, 
Well  knowing  that  to  ask  was  to  command? 
Well  knowing,  what  all  falconers  confessed, 
In  all  the  land  that  falcon  was  the  best, 
The  master's  pride  and  passion  and  delight, 
And  the  sole  pursuivant  of  this  poor  knight. 
But  yet,  for  her  child's  sake,  she  could  no  less 
Than  give  assent,  to  soothe  his  restlessness, 
28 


THE    FALCON    OF    SER    FEDERIGO. 

So  promised,  and  then  promising  to  keep 
Her  promise  sacred,  saw  him  fall  asleep. 

The  morrow  was  a  bright  September   morn  ; 

The  earth  was  beautiful  as  if  new-born  ; 

There  was  that  nameless  splendor  everywhere, 

That  wild  exhilaration  in  the  air, 

Which  makes  the  passers  in  the  city  street 

Congratulate  each  other  as  they  meet. 

Two  lovely  ladies,  clothed  in  cloak  and  hood, 

Passed  through  the  garden  gate  into  the  wood, 

Under  the  lustrous  leaves,  and  through  the  sheen 

Of  dewy  sunshine  showering  down  between. 

The  one,  close-hooded,  had  the  attractive  grace 

Which  sorrow  sometimes  lends  a  woman's  face ; 

Her  dark  eyes  moistened  with  the  mists  that  roll 

From  the  gulf-stream  of  passion  in  the  soul ; 

The  other  with  her  hood  thrown  back,  her  hair 

Making  a  golden  glory  in  the  air, 

Her  cheeks  suffused  with  an  auroral  blush, 

Her  young  heart  singing  louder  than  the  thrush. 

So  walked,  that  morn,  through  mingled  light  and  shade, 

Each  by  the  other's  presence  lovelier  made, 

Monna  Giovanna  and  her  bosom  friend, 

Intent  upon  their  errand  and  its  end. 

They  found  Ser  Federigo  at  his  toil, 

Like  banished  Adam,  delving  in  the  soil ; 

And  when  he  looked  and  these  fair  women  spied, 

The  garden  suddenly  was  glorified  ; 

29 


TALES    OF    A   WAYSIDE    INN. 

His  long-lost  Eden  was  restored  again, 

And  the  strange  river  winding  through  the  plain 

No  longer  was  the  Arno  to  his  eyes, 

But  the  Euphrates  watering  Paradise  ! 

Monna  Giovanna  raised  her  stately  head, 
And  with  fair  words  of  salutation  said  : 
"  Ser  Federigo,  we  come  here  as  friends, 
Hoping  in  this  to  make  some  poor  amends 
For  past  unkindness.     I  who  ne'er  before 
Would  even  cross  the  threshold  of  your  door, 
I  who  in  happier  days  such  pride  maintained, 
Refused  your  banquets,  and  your  gifts  disdained, 
This  morning  come,  a  self-invited  guest, 
To  put  your  generous  nature  to  the  test, 
And  breakfast  with  you  under  your  own  vine." 
To  which  he  answered :  "  Poor  desert  of  mine, 
Not  your  unkindness  call  it,  for  if  aught 
Is  good  in  me  of  feeling  or  of  thought, 
From  you  it  comes,  and  this  last  grace  outweighs 
All  sorrows,  all  regrets  of  other  days." 

And  after  further  compliment  and  talk, 
Among  the  dahlias  in  the  garden  walk 
He  left  his  guests  ;  and  to  his  cottage  turned, 
And  as  he  entered  for  a  moment  yearned 
For  the  lost  splendors  of  the  days  of  old, 
The  ruby  glass,  the  silver  and  the  gold, 
And  felt  how  piercing  is  the  sting  of  pride, 
By  want  embittered  and  intensified. 


THE    FALCON    OF    SER    FEDERIGO. 

He  looked  about  him  for  some  means  or  way 

To  keep  this  unexpected  holiday ; 

Searched  every  cupboard,  and  then  searched  again, 

Summoned  the  maid,  who  came,  but  came  in  vain; 

"The  Signor  did  not  hunt  to-day,"  she  said, 

"  There  's  nothing  in  the  house  but  wine  and  bread." 

Then  suddenly  the  drowsy  falcon  shook 

His  little  bells,  with  that  sagacious  look, 

Which  said,  as  plain  as  language  to  the  ear, 

"If  anything  is  wanting,  I  am  here!" 

Yes,  everything  is  wanting,  gallant  bird! 

The  master  seized  thee  without  further  word, 

Like  thine  own  lure,  he  whirled  thee  round ;  ah  me  ! 

The  pomp  and  flutter  of  brave  falconry, 

The  bells,  the  jesses,  the  bright  scarlet  hood, 

The  flight  and  the  pursuit  o'er  field  and  wood, 

All  these  forevermore  are  ended  now  ; 

No  longer  victor,  but  the  victim  thou  ! 

Then  on  the  board  a  snow-white  cloth  he  spread, 
Laid  on  its  wooden  dish  the  loaf  of  bread, 
Brought  purple  grapes  with  autumn  sunshine  hot, 
The  fragrant  peach,  the  juicy  bergamot ; 
Then  in  the  midst  a  flask  of  wine  he  placed, 
And  with  autumnal  flowers  the  banquet  graced. 
Ser  Federigo,  would  not  these  suffice 
Without  thy  falcon  stuffed  with  cloves  and  spice  ? 

When  all  was  ready,  and  the  courtly  dame 
With  her  companion  to  the  cottage  came, 


TALES    OF    A   WAYSIDE    INN. 

Upon  Ser  Federigo's  brain  there  fell 

The  wild  enchantment  of  a  magic  spell ; 

The  room  they  entered,  mean  and  low  and  small, 

Was  changed  into  a  sumptuous  banquet-hall, 

With  fanfares  by  aerial  trumpets  blown ; 

The  rustic  chajr  she  sat  on  was  a  throne ; 

He  ate  celestial  food,  and  a  divine 

Flavor  was  given  to  his  country  wine, 

And  the  poor  falcon,  fragrant  with  his  spice, 

A  peacock  was,  or  bird  of  paradise! 

When  the  repast  was  ended,  they  arose 
And  passed  again  into  the  garden-close. 
Then  said  the  lady,  "  Far  too  well  I  know, 
Remembering  still  the  days  of  long  ago, 
Though  you  betray  it  not,  with  what  surprise 
You  see  me  here  in  this  familiar  wise. 
You  have  no  children,  and  you  cannot  guess 
What  anguish,  what  unspeakable  distress 
A  mother  feels,  whose  child  is  lying  ill, 
Nor  how  her  heart  anticipates  his  will. 
And  yet  for  this,  you  see  me  lay  aside 
All  womanly  reserve  and  check  of  pride, 
And  ask  the  thing  most  precious  in  your  sight, 
Your  falcon,  your  sole  comfort  and  delight, 
Which  if  you  find  it  in  your  heart  to  give, 
My  poor,  unhappy  boy  perchance  may  live." 

Ser  Federigo  listens,  and  replies, 

With  tears  of  love  and  pity  in  his  eyes  : 

32 


THE    FALCON    OF    SER    FEDERIGO. 

"  Alas,  dear  lady !  there  can  be  no  task 

So  sweet  to  me,  as  giving  when  you  ask. 

One  little  hour  ago,  if  I  had  known 

This  wish  of  yours,  it  would  have  been  my  own  ; 

But  thinking  in  what  manner  I  could  best 

Do  honor  to  the  presence  of  my  guest, 

I  deemed  that  nothing  worthier  could  be 

Than  what  most  dear  and  precious  was  to  me, 

And  so  my  gallant  falcon  breathed  his  last 

To  furnish  forth  this  morning  our  repast." 

In  mute  contrition,  mingled  with  dismay, 
The  gentle  lady  turned  her  eyes  away, 
Grieving  that  he  such  sacrifice  should  make, 
And  kill  his  falcon  for  a  woman's  sake, 
Yet  feeling  in  her  heart  a  woman's  pride, 
That  nothing  she  could  ask  for  was  denied ; 
Then  took  her  leave,  and  passed  out  at  the  gate 
With  footstep  slow  and  soul  disconsolate. 

Three  days  went  by,  and  lo!  a  passing-bell, 
Tolled  from  the  little  chapel  in  the  dell ; 
Ten  strokes  Ser  Federigo  heard,  and  said, 
Breathing  a  prayer,   "  Alas !  her  child  is  dead ! " 

Three  months  went  by ;  and  lo !  a  merrier  chime 

Rang  from  the  chapel  bells  at  Christmas  time  ; 

The  cottage  was  deserted,  and  no  more 

Ser  Federigo  sat  beside  its  door, 

But  now,  with  servitors  to  do  his  will, 

5  33 


TALES    OF   A   WAYSIDE    INN. 

In  the  grand  villa,  half-way  up  the  hill, 

Sat  at  the  Christmas  feast,  and  at  his  side 

Monna  Giovanna,  his  beloved  bride, 

Never  so  beautiful,  so  kind,  so  fair, 

Enthroned  once  more  in  the  old  rustic  chair, 

High-perched  upon  the  back  of  which  there  stood 

The  image  of  a  falcon  carved  in  wood, 

And  underneath,  the  inscription,  with  a  date, 

"All  things  come  round  to  him  who  will  but  wait." 


INTERLUDE. 


SOON  as  the  story  reached  its  end, 
One,  over  eager  to  commend, 
Crowned  it  with  injudicious  praise  ; 
And  then  the  voice  of  blame  found  vent, 
And  fanned  the  embers  of  dissent 
Into  a  somewhat  lively  blaze. 

The  Theologian  shook  his  head ; 

"These  old  Italian  tales,"  he  said, 

"  From  the  much-praised  Decameron  down 

Through  alt  the  rabble  of  the  rest, 

Are  either  trifling,  dull,  or  lewd ; 

The  gossip  of  a  neighborhood 

In  some  remote  provincial  town, 

A  scandalous  chronicle  at  best ! 

They  seem  to  me  a  stagnant  fen, 

Grown  rank  with  rushes  and  with  reeds, 

Where  a  white  lily,  now  and  then, 

Blooms  in  the  midst  of  noxious  weeds 

And  deadly  nightshade  on  its  banks." 

To  this  the  Student  straight  replied  : 
"  For  the  white  lily,  many  thanks ! 

35 


TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

One  should  not  say,  with  too  much  pride, 

Fountain,  I  will  not  drink  of  thee  ! 

Nor  were  it  grateful  to  forget, 

That  from  these  reservoirs  and  tanks 

Even  imperial  Shakespeare  drew 

His  Moor  of  .Venice  and  the  Jew, 

And  Romeo  and  Juliet, 

And  many  a  famous  comedy." 

Then  a  long  pause ;  till  some  one  said, 
"  An  Angel  is  flying  overhead  !  " 
At  these  words  spake  the  Spanish  Jew, 
And  murmured  with  an  inward  breath : 
"  God  grant,  if  what  you  say  is  true, 
It  may  not  be  the  Angel  of  Death  ! " 

And  then  another  pause  ;  and  then, 

Stroking  his  beard,  he  said  again  : 

"  This  brings  back  to  my  memory 

A  story  in  the  Talmud  told, 

That  book  of  gems,  that  book  of  gold, 

Of  wonders  many  and  manifold, 

A  tale  that  often  comes  to  me, 

And  fills  my  heart,  and  haunts  my  brain, 

And  never  wearies  nor  grows  old." 


THE   SPANISH   JEW'S   TALE. 

THE    LEGEND    OF    RABBI    BEN    LEVI. 

RABBI  Ben  Levi,  on  the  Sabbath,  read 
A  volume  of  the  Law,  in  which  it  said, 
"  No  man  shall  look  upon  my  face  and  live." 
And  as  he  read,  he  prayed  that  God  would  give 
His  faithful  servant  grace  with  mortal  eye 
To  look  upon  His  face  and  yet  not  die. 

Then  fell  a  sudden  shadow  on  the  page 

And,  lifting  up  his  eyes,  grown  dim  with  age, 

He  saw  the  Angel  of  Death  before  him  stand, 

Holding  a  naked  sword  in  his  right  hand. 

Rabbi  Ben  Levi  was  a  righteous  man, 

Yet  through  his  veins  a  chill  of  terror  ran. 

With  trembling  voice  he  said,   "  What  wilt  thou  here  ? 

The  angel  answered,  "  Lo !  the  time  draws  near 

AVhen  thou  must  die ;  yet  first,  by  God's  decree, 

Whate'er  thou  askest  shall  be  granted  thee." 

Replied  the  Rabbi,  "  Let  these  living  eyes 

First  look  upon  my  place  in  Paradise." 

37 


TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 


Then  said  the  Angel,  "  Come  with  me  and  look.' 

Rabbi  Ben  Levi  closed  the  sacred  book, 

And  rising,  and  uplifting  his  gray  head, 

"  Give  me  thy  sword,"  he  to  the  Angel  said, 

38 


THE  LEGEND  OF  RABBI  BEN  LEVI. 

"Lest  thou  shouldst  fall  upon  me  by  the  way." 
The  Angel  smiled  and  hastened  to  obey, 
Then  led  him  forth  to  the  Celestial  Town, 
And  set  him  on  the  wall,  whence,  gazing  down, 
Rabbi  Ben  Levi,  with  his  living  eyes, 
Might  look  upon  his  place  in  Paradise. 

Then  straight  into  the  city  of  the  Lord 

The  Rabbi  leaped  with  the  Death-Angel's  sword, 

And  through  the  streets  there  swept  a  sudden  breath 

Of  something  there  unknown,  which  men  call  death. 

Meanwhile  the  Angel  stayed  without,  and  cried, 

"  Come  back ! "     To  which  the  Rabbi's  voice  replied, 

"  No !  in  the  name  of  God,  whom  I  adore, 

I  swear  that  hence  I  will  depart  no  more ! " 

Then  all  the  Angels  cried,  "O  Holy  One, 
See  what  the  son  of  Levi  here  has  done  ! 
The  kingdom  of  Heaven  he  takes  by  violence, 
And  in  Thy  name  refuses  to  go  hence  !  " 
The  Lord  replied,  "  My  Angels,  be  not  wroth  ; 
Did  e'er  the  son  of  Levi  break  his  oath  ? 
Let  him  remain  ;  for  he  with  mortal  eye 
Shall  look  upon  my  face  and  yet  not  die." 

Beyond  the  outer  wall  the  Angel  of  Death 
Heard  the  great  voice,  and  said,  with  panting  breath, 
"  Give  back  the  sword,  and  let  me  go  my  way." 
Whereat  the  Rabbi  paused,  and  answered,  "  Nay  ! 
Anguish  enough  already  has  it  caused 

39 


TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 


Among  the  sons  of  men."     And  while  he  paused 
He  heard  the  awful  mandate  of  the  Lord 
Resounding  through  the  'air,   "  Give  back  the  sword  ! 


The  Rabbi  bowed  his  head  in  silent  prayer ; 
Then  said  he  to  the  dreadful  Angel,   "  Swear, 
No  human  eye  shall  look  on  it  again  ; 
But  when  thou  takest  away  the  souls  of  men, 
Thyself  unseen,  and  with  an  unseen  sword, 
Thou  wilt  perform  the  bidding  of  the  Lord." 

The  Angel  took  the  sword  again,  and  swore, 
And  walks  on  earth  unseen  forevermore. 


&t 


Nfeide 

/r 


W 

(g> 


Urxler  tl?e^reat  oaks  ibal  throw'       J    Across  tl?e  roa3  ibe  barps9  displa\> 
^a^es  °f  j^,^  a^d  s^acle   belov?,     |    ^^eir  lip es  of  stalls, t'^eir  i^ov^s  oj'l^ay 


Said  the  Sicilian  :  "  While  you  spoke, 
Telling  your  legend  marvellous, 
Suddenly  in  my  memory  woke 


TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

Among  the  sons  of  men."     And  while  he  pause'd 
He  heard  the  awful  mandate  of  the  Lord 
Resounding  through  the  'air,  "  Give  back  the  sword  ! 


INTERLUDE 


E  ended  :  and  a  kind  of  spell 
Upon  the  silent  listeners  fell. 
His  solemn  manner  and  his  words 
Had  touched  the  deep,  mysterious  chords, 
That  vibrate  in  each  human  breast 
Alike,  but  not  alike  confessed. 
The  spiritual  world  seemed  near ; 
And  close  above  them,  full  of  fear, 
Its  awful  adumbration  passed, 
A  luminous  shadow,  vague  and  vast 
They  almost  feared  to  look,  lest  there, 
Embodied  from  the  impalpable  air, 
They  might  behold  the  Angel  stand, 
Holding  the  sword  in  his  right  hand. 

At  last,  but  in  a  voice  subdued, 
Not  to  disturb  their  dreamy  mood, 
Said  the  Sicilian  :  "  While  you  spoke, 
Telling  your  legend  marvellous, 
Suddenly  in  my  memory  woke 


TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

The  thought  of  one,  now  gone  from  us, 

An  old  Abate,  meek  and  mild, 

My  friend  and  teacher,  when  a  child, 

Who  sometimes  in  those  days  of  old 

The  legend  of  an  Angel  told, 

Which  ran,  if  I  remember,  thus." 


THE   SICILIAN'S   TALE. 


KING    ROBERT    OF    SICILY. 

OBERT  of  Sicily,  brother  of  Pope  Urbane 
AX  And  Valmond,  Emperor  of  Allemaine, 
Apparelled  in  magnificent  attire, 
With  retinue  of  many  a  knight  and  squire, 
On  St.  John's  eve,  at  vespers,  proudly  sat 
And  heard  the  priests  chant  the  Magnificat. 
And  as  he  listened,  o'er  and  o'er  again 
Repeated,  like  a  burden  or  refrain, 
He  caught  the  words,  "  Deposuit  potentes 
De  sede,  et  exalt avit  humiles  "  ; 
And  slowly  lifting  up  his  kingly  head 
He  to  a  learned  clerk  beside  him  said, 

"  What  mean  these  words  ? "     The  clerk  made  answer  meet, 
"  He  has  put  down  the  mighty  from  their  seat, 
And  has  exalted  them  of  low  degree." 
Thereat  King  Robert  muttered  scornfully, 
"  'T  is  well  that  such  seditious  words  are  sung 
Only  by  priests  and  in  the  Latin  tongue  ; 
For  unto  priests  and  people  be  it  known, 
There  is  no  power  can  push  me  from  my  throne  ! " 

43 


TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

And  leaning  back,  he  yawned  and  fell  asleep, 
Lulled  by  the  chant  monotonous  and  deep. 

When  he  awoke,  it  was  already  night; 

The  church  was  empty  and  there  was  no  light, 

Save  where  the  lamps,  that  glimmered  few  and  faint, 

Lighted  a  little  space  before  some  saint. 

He  started  from  his  seat  and  gazed  around, 

But  saw  no  living  thing  and  heard  no  sound. 

He  groped  towards  the  door,  but  it  was  locked ; 

He  cried  aloud,  and  listened,  and  then  knocked, 

And  uttered  awful  threatenings  and  complaints, 

And  imprecations  upon  men  and  saints. 

The  sounds  re-echoed  from  the  roof  and  walls 

As  if  dead  priests  were  laughing  in  their  stalls ! 

At  length  the  sexton,  hearing  from  without 

The  tumult  of  the  knocking  and  the  shout, 

And  thinking  thieves  were  in  the  house  of  prayer, 

Came  with  his  lantern,  asking,  "Who  is  there?" 

Half  choked  with  rage,  King  Robert  fiercely  said, 

"  Open  :  't  is  I,  the  King  !     Art  thou  afraid  ? " 

The  frightened  sexton,  muttering,  with  a  curse, 

"  This  is  some  drunken  vagabond,  or  worse ! " 

Turned  the  great  key  and  flung  the  portal  wide ; 

A  man  rushed  by  him  at  a  single  stride, 

Haggard,  half  naked,  without  hat  or  cloak, 

Who  neither  turned,  nor  looked  at  him,  nor  spoke, 

But  leaped  into  the  blackness  of  the  night, 

And  vanished  like  a  spectre  from  his  sight. 

44 


KING    ROBERT    OF    SICILY. 

Robert  of  Sicily,  brother  of  Pope  Urbane 
And  Valmond,  Emperor  of  Allemaine, 
Despoiled  of  his  magnificent  attire, 
Bare-headed,  breathless,  and  besprent  with  mire, 
With  sense  of  wrong  and  outrage  desperate, 
Strode  on  and  thundered  at  the  palace  gate  ; 
Rushed  through  the  court-yard,  thrusting  in  his  rage 
To  right  and  left  each  seneschal  and  page, 
And  hurried  up  the  broad  and  sounding  stair, 
His  white  face  ghastly  in  the  torches'  glare. 
From  hall  to  hall  he  passed  with  breathless  speed  ; 
Voices  and  cries  he  heard,  but  did  not  heed, 
Until  at  last  he  reached  the  banquet-room, 
Blazing  with  light,  and  breathing  with  perfume. 

I- 

There  on  the  dais  sat  another  king, 
Wearing  his  robes,  his  crown,  his  signet-ring, 
King  Robert's  self  in  features,  form,  and  height, 
But  all  transfigured  with  angelic  light ! 
It  was  an  Angel ;  and  his  presence  there 
With  a  divine  effulgence  filled  the  air, 
An  exaltation,  piercing  the  disguise, 
Though  none  the  hidden  Angel  recognize. 

A  moment  speechless,  motionless,  amazed, 

The  throneless  monarch  on  the  Angel  gazed, 

Who  met  his  looks  of  anger  and  surprise 

With  the  divine  compassion  of  his  eyes ; 

Then  said,  "Who  art  thou  ?  and  why  com'st  thou  here?" 

To  which  King  Robert  answered  with  a  sneer, 


TALES    OF    A   WAYSIDE    INN. 

"  I  am  the  King,  and  come  to  claim  my  own 

From  an  impostor,  who  usurps  my  throne ! " 

And  suddenly,  at  these  audacious  words, 

Up  sprang  the  angry  guests,  and  drew  their  swords; 

The  Angel  answered,  with  unruffled  brow, 

"  Nay,  not  the  King,  but  the  King's  Jester,  thou 

Henceforth  shalt  wear  the  bells  and  scalloped  cape, 

And  for  thy  counsellor  shalt  lead  an  ape; 

Thou  shalt  obey  my  servants  when  they  call, 

And  wait  upon  my  henchmen  in  the  hall ! " 

Deaf  to  King  Robert's  threats  and  cries  and  prayers, 

They  thrust  him  from  the  hall  and  down  the  stairs; 

A  group  of  tittering  pages  ran  before, 

And  as  they  opened  wide  the  folding-door, 

His  heart  failed,  for  he  heard,  with  strange  alarms, 

The  boisterous  laughter  of  the  men-at-arms, 

And  all  the  vaulted  chamber  roar  and  ring 

With  the  mock  plaudits  of  "  Long  live  the  King ! " 

Next  morning,  waking  with  the  day's  first  beam, 
He  said  within  himself,  "  It  was  a  dream  ! " 
But  the  straw  rustled  as  he  turned  his  head, 
There  were  the  cap  and  bells  beside  his  bed, 
Around  him  rose  the  bare,  discolored  walls, 
Close  by,  the  steeds  were  champing  in  their  stalls, 
And  in  the  corner,  a  revolting  shape, 
Shivering  and  chattering  sat  the  wretched  ape. 
It  was  no  dream  ;  the  world  he  loved  so  much 
Had  turned  to  dust  and  ashes  at  his  touch  ! 

46 


KING    ROBERT   OF    SICILY. 

Days  came  and  went ;  and  now  returned  again 

To  Sicily  the  old  Saturnian  reign ; 

Under  the  Angel's  governance  benign 

The  happy  island  danced  writh  corn  and  wine, 

And  deep  within  the  mountain's  burning  breast 

Enceladus,  the  giant,  was  at  rest. 

Meanwhile  King  Robert  yielded  to  his  fate, 

Sullen  and  silent  and  disconsolate. 

Dressed  in  the  motley  garb  that  Jesters  wear, 

With  looks  bewildered  and  a  vacant  stare, 

Close  shaven  above  the  ears,  as  monks  are  shorn, 

By  courtiers  mocked,  by  pages  laughed  to  scorn, 

His  only  friend  the  ape,  his  only  food 

What  others  left,  —  he"  still  was  unsubdued. 

And  when  the  Angel  met  him  on  his  way, 

And  half  in  earnest,  half  in  jest,  would  say, 

Sternly,  though  tenderly,  that  he  might  feel 

The  velvet  scabbard  held  a  sword  of  steel, 

"  Art  thou  the  King  ? "  the  passion  of  his  woe 

Burst  from  him  in  resistless  overflow, 

And,  lifting  high  his  forehead,  he  would  fling 

The  haughty  answer  back,  "  I  am,  I  am  the  King ! " 

Almost  three  years  were  ended ;  when  there  came 
Ambassadors  of  great  repute  and  name 
From  Valmond,  Emperor  of  Allemaine, 
Unto  King  Robert,  saying  that  Pope  Urbane 
By  letter  summoned  them  forthwith  to  come 
On  Holy  Thursday  to  his  city  of  Rome. 

47 


TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

The  Angel  with  great  joy  received  his  guests, 

And  gave  them  presents  of  embroidered  vests, 

And  velvet  mantles  with  rich  ermine  lined, 

And  rings  and  jewels  of  the  rarest  kind. 

Then  he  departed  with  them  o'er  the  sea 

Into  the  lovely  land  of  Italy, 

Whose  loveliness  was  more  resplendent  made 

By  the  mere  passing  of  that  cavalcade, 

With  plumes,  and  cloaks,  and  housings,  and  the  stir 

Of  jewelled  bridle  and  of  golden  spur. 

And  lo  !  among  the  menials,  in  mock  state, 

Upon  a  piebald  steed,  with  shambling  gait, 

His  cloak  of  fox-tails  flapping  in  the  wind, 

The  solemn  ape  demurely  perched  behind, 

King  Robert  rode,  making  huge  merriment 

In  all  the  country  towns  through  which  they  went. 

The  Pope  received  them  with  great  pomp,  and  blare 
Of  bannered  trumpets,  on  Saint  Peter's  square, 
Giving  his  benediction  and  embrace, 
Fervent,  and  full  of  apostolic  grace. 
While  with  congratulations  and  with  prayers 
He  entertained  the  Angel  unawares, 
Robert,  the  Jester,  bursting  through  the  crowd, 
Into  their  presence  rushed,  and  cried  aloud, 
"  I  am  the  King !     Look,  and  behold  in  me 
Robert,  your  brother,  King  of  Sicily! 
This  man,  who  wears  my  semblance  to  your  eyes, 
Is  an  impostor  in  a  king's  disguise. 

48 


KING    ROBERT    OF    SICILY. 

Do  you  not  know  me?  does  no  voice  within 
Answer  my  cry,  and  say  we  are  akin  ? " 
The  Pope  in  silence,  but  with  troubled  mien, 
Gazed  at  the  Angel's  countenance  serene  ; 
The  Emperor,  laughing,  said,  "It  is  strange  sport 
To  keep  a  madman  for  thy  Fool  at  court ! " 
And  the  poor,  baffled  Jester  in  disgrace 
Was  hustled  back  among  the  populace. 

In  solemn  state  the  Holy  Week  went  by, 

And  Easter  Sunday  gleamed  upon  the  sky; 

The  presence  of  the  Angel,  with  its  light, 

Before  the  sun  rose,  made  the  city  bright, 

And  with  new  fervor  filled  the  hearts  of  men, 

Who  felt  that  Christ  indeed  had  risen  again. 

Even  the  Jester,  on  his  bed  of  straw, 

With  haggard  eyes  the  unwonted  splendor  saw, 

He  felt  within  a  power  unfelt  before, 

And,  kneeling  humbly  on  his  chamber  floor, 

He  heard  the  rushing  garments  of  the  Lord 

Sweep  through  the  silent  air,  ascending  heavenward. 

And  now  the  visit  ending,  and  once  more 
Valmond  returning  to  the  Danube's  shpre, 
Homeward  the  Angel  journeyed,  and  again 
The  land  was  made  resplendent  with  his  train, 
Flashing  along  the  towns  of  Italy 
Unto  Salerno,  and  from  there  by  sea. 
And  when  once  more  within  Palermo's  wall, 
And,  seated  on  the  throne  in  his  great  hall, 

7  49 


TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

He  heard  the  Angelus  from  convent  towers, 

As  if  the  better  world  conversed  with  ours, 

He  beckoned  to  King  Robert  to  draw  nigher, 

And  with  a  gesture  bade  the  rest  retire ; 

And  when  they  were  alone,  the  Angel  said, 

"  Art  thou  the  King  ? "     Then  bowing  down  his  head, 

King  Robert  crossed  both  hands  upon  his  breast, 

And  meekly  answered  him  :  "  Thou  knowest  best ! 

My  sins  as  scarlet  are ;  let  me  go  hence, 

And  in  some  cloister's  school  of  penitence, 

Across  those  stones,  that  pave  the  way  to  heaven, 

Walk  barefoot,  till  my  guilty  soul  is  shriven  ! " 

The  Angel  smiled,  and  from  his  radiant  face 

A  holy  light  illumined  all  the  place, 

And  through  the  open  window,  loud  and  clear, 

They  heard  the  monks  chant  in  the  chapel  near, 

Above  the  stir  and  tumult  of  the  street : 

"  He  has  put  down  the  mighty  from  their  seat, 

And  has  exalted  them  of  low  degree ! " 

And  through  the  chant  a  second  melody 

Rose  like  the  throbbing  of  a  single  string : 

"I  am  an  Angel,  and  thou  art  the  King ! " 

King  Robert,  who  was  standing  near  the  throne, 

Lifted  his  eyes,  and  lo !  he  was  alone  ! 

But  all  apparelled  as  in  days  of  old, 

With  ermined  mantle  and  with  cloth  of  gold ; 

And  when  his  courtiers  came,  they  found  him  there 

Kneeling  upon  the  floor,  absorbed  in  silent  prayer. 


INTERLUDE. 


AND  then  the  blue-eyed  Norseman  told 
A  Saga  of  the  days  of  old. 
"  There  is,"  said  he,  "  a  wondrous  book 
Of  Legends  in  the  old  Norse  tongue, 
Of  the  dead  kings  of  Norroway,  — 
Legends  that  once  were  told  or  sung 
In  many  a  smoky  fireside  nook 
Of  Iceland,  in  the  ancient  day, 
By  wandering  Saga-man  or  Scald ; 
Heimskringla  is  the  volume  called ; 
And  he  who  looks  may  find  therein 
The  story  that  I  now  begin." 

And  in  each  pause  the  story  made 
Upon  his  violin  he  played, 
As  an  appropriate  interlude, 
Fragments  of  old  Norwegian  tunes 
That  bound  in  one  the  separate  runes, 
And  held  the  mind  in  perfect  mood, 
Entwining  and  encircling  all 
The  strange  and  antiquated  rhymes 


TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

With  melodies  of  olden  times ; 

As  over  some  half-ruined  wall, 

Disjointed  and  about  to  fall, 

Fresh  woodbines  climb  and  interlace, 

And  keep  the  loosened  stones  in  place. 


THE    MUSICIAN'S   TALE, 


THE  SAGA  OF  KING  OLAF. 


THE  CHALLENGE  OF  THOR. 

I    AM  the  God  Thor, 
I  am  the  War  God, 
I  am  the  Thunderer! 
Here  in  my  Northland, 
My  fastness  and  fortress, 
Reign  I  forever ! 

Here  amid  icebergs 
Rule  I  the  nations; 
This  is  my  hammer, 
Miolner  the  mighty ; 
Giants  and  sorcerers 
Cannot  withstand  it ! 

These  are  the  gauntlets 
Wherewith  I  wield  it, 
And  hurl  it  afar  off; 
This  is  my  girdle ; 
Whenever  I  brace  it, 
Strength  is  redoubled  ! 

53 


TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

The  light  thou  beholdest 
Stream  through  the  heavens, 
In  flashes  of  crimson, 
Is  but  my  red  beard 
Blown  by  the  night-wind, 
Affrighting  the  nations  ! 

Jove  is  my  brother; 

Mine  eyes  are  the  lightning ; 

The  wheels  of  my  chariot 

Roll  in  the  thunder, 

The  blows  of  my  hammer 

Ring  in  the  earthquake  ! 

Force  rules  the  world  still, 
Has  ruled  it,  shall  rule  it; 
Meekness  is  weakness, 
Strength  is  triumphant, 
Over  the  whole  earth 
Still  is  it  Thor's-Day! 

Thou  art  a  God  too, 
O  Galilean! 
And  thus  single-handed 
Unto  the  combat, 
Gauntlet  or  Gospel, 
Here  I  defy  thee  ! 


54 


THE    SAGA    OF    KING    OLAF. 


II. 

KING  OLAF'S  RETURN. 

AND  King  Olaf  heard  the  cry, 
Saw  the  red  light  in  the  sky, 
Laid  his  hand  upon  his  sword, 
As  he  leaned  upon  the  railing, 
And  his  ships  went  sailing,  sailing 
Northward  into  Drontheim  fiord. 

There  he  stood  as  one  who  dreamed  ; 
And  the  red  light  glanced  and  gleamed 

On  the  armor  that  he  wore  ; 
And  he  shouted,  as  the  rifted 
Streamers  o'er  him  shook  and  shifted, 

"  I  accept  thy  challenge,  Thor  !  " 

To  avenge  his  father  slain, 
And  reconquer  realm  and  reign, 

Came  the  youthful  Olaf  home, 
Through  the  midnight  sailing,  sailing, 
Listening  to  the  wild  wind's  wailing, 

And  the  dashing  of  the  foam. 

To  his  thoughts  the  sacred  name 
Of  his  mother  Astrid  came, 
And  the  tale  she  oft  had  told 


TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

Of  her  flight  by  secret  passes 
Through  the  mountains  and  morasses, 
To  the  home  of  Hakon  old. 

Then  strange  memories  crowded  back 
Of  Queen  Gunhild's  wrath  and  wrack, 

And  a  hurried  flight  by  sea; 
Of  grim  Vikings,  and  their  rapture 
In  the  sea-fight,  and  the  capture, 

And  the  life  of  slavery. 

How  a  stranger  watched  his  face 
In  the  Esthonian  market-place, 

Scanned  his  features  one  by  one, 
Saying,   "We  should  know  each  other; 
I  am  Sigurd,  Astrid's  brother, 

Thou  art  Olaf,  Astrid's  son  ! " 

Then  as  Queen  Allogia's  page, 
Old  in  honors,  young  in  age, 

Chief  of  all  her  men-at-arms ; 
Till  vague  whispers,  and  mysterious, 
Reached  King  Valdemar,  the  imperious, 

Filling  him  with  strange  alarms. 

Then  his  cruisings  o'er  the  seas, 
Westward  to  the  Hebrides, 

And  to  Scilly's  rocky  shore; 
And  the  hermit's  cavern  dismal, 
Christ's  great  name  and  rites  baptismal, 

In  the  ocean's  rush  and  roar. 
56 


THE    SAGA    OF    KING   OLAF. 

All  these  thoughts  of  love  and  strife 
Glimmered  through  his  lurid  life, 

As  the  stars'  intenser  light 
Through  the  red  flames  o'er  him  trailing, 
As  his  ships  went  sailing,  sailing, 

Northward  in  the  summer  night. 

Trained  for  either  camp  or  court, 
Skilful  in  each  manly  sport, 

Young  and  beautiful  and  tall; 
Art  of  warfare,  craft  of  chases, 
Swimming,  skating,  snow-shoe  races, 

Excellent  alike  in  all. 

When  at  sea,  with  all  his  rowers, 
He  along  the  bending  oars 

Outside  of  his  ship  could  run. 
He  the  Smalsor  Horn  ascended, 
And  his  shining  shield  suspended 

On  its  summit,  like  a  sun. 

On  the  ship-rails  he  could  stand, 
Wield  his  sword  with  either  hand, 

And  at  once  two  javelins  throw; 
At  all  feasts  where  ale  was  strongest 
Sat  the  merry  monarch  longest, 

First  to  come  and  last  to  go. 

Norway  never  yet  had  seen 
One  so  beautiful  of  mien, 
One  so  royal  in  attire, 

8  57 


TALES    OF    A   WAYSIDE    INN. 

When  in  arms  completely  furnished,- 
Harness  gold-inlaid  and  burnished, 
Mantle  like  a  flame  of  fire. 

Thus  came  Olaf  to  his  own, 
When  .upon  the  night-wind  blown 

Passed  that  cry  along  the  shore ; 
And  he  answered,  while  the  rifted 
Streamers  o'er  him  shook  and  shifted, 

"I  accept  thy  challenge,  Thor!" 


THE    SAGA    OF    KING    OLAF. 

III. 
THORA   OF   RIMOL. 

of  Rimol !  hide  me  !  hide  me  ! 
•A-     Danger  and  shame  and  death  betide  me ! 
For  Olaf  the  King  is  hunting  me  down 
Through  field  and  forest,  through  thorp  and  town  ! " 
Thus  cried  Jarl  Hakon 
To  Thora,  the  fairest  of  women. 

"  Hakon  Jarl !  for  the  love  I  bear  thee 
Neither  shall  shame  nor  death  come  near  thee ! 
But  the  hiding-place  wherein  thou  must  lie 
Is  the  cave  underneath  the  swine  in  the  sty." 

Thus  to  Jarl  Hakon 

Said  Thora,  the  fairest  of  women. 

So  Hakon  Jarl  and  his  base  thrall  Karker 
Crouched  in  the  cave,  than  a  dungeon  darker, 
As  Olaf  came  riding,  with  men  in  mail, 
Through  the  forest  roads  into  Orkadale, 

Demanding  Jarl  Hakon 

Of  Thora,  the  fairest  of  women. 

"  Rich  and  honored  shall  be  whoever 
The  head  of  Hakon  Jarl  shall  dissever ! " 
Hakon  heard  him,  and  Karker  the  slave, 
Through  the  breathing-holes  of  the  darksome  cave. 
Alone  in  her  chamber 
Wept  Thora,  the  fairest  of  women. 

59 


TALES    OF   A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

Said  Karker,  the  crafty,  "  I  will  not  slay  thee  ! 
For  all  the  king's  gold  I  will  never  betray  thee  ! " 
"Then  why  dost  thou  turn  so  pale,  O  churl, 
And  then  again  black  as  the  earth  ? "  said  the  Earl. 

More  pale  and  more  faithful 

Was  Thoraj  the  fairest  of  women. 

From  a  dream  in  the  night  the  thrall  started,  saying, 
"  Round  my  neck  a  gold  ring  King  Olaf  was  laying ! " 
And  Hakon  answered,  "  Beware  of  the  king ! 
He  will  lay  round  thy  neck  a  blood-red  ring." 

At  the  ring  on  her  finger 

Gazed  Thora,  the  fairest  of  women. 

At  daybreak  slept  Hakon,  with  sorrows  encumbered, 
But  screamed  and  drew  up  his  feet  as  he  slumbered ; 
The  thrall  in  the  darkness  plunged  with  his  knife, 
And  the  Earl  awakened  no  more  in  this  life. 

But  wakeful  and  weeping 

Sat  Thora,  the  fairest  of  women. 

At  Nidarholm  the  priests  are  all  singing, 
Two  ghastly  heads  on  the  gibbet  are  swinging; 
One  is  Jarl  Hakon's  and  one  is  his  thrall's, 
And  the  people  are  shouting  from  windows  and  walls 
While  alone  in  her  chamber 
Swoons  Thora,  the  fairest  of  women. 


THE   SAGA    OF    KING    OLAF. 

IV. 
QUEEN    SIGRID    THE    HAUGHTY. 

UEEN  Sigrid  the  Haughty  sat  proud  and  aloft 


~^j    In  her  chamber,  that  looked  over  meadow  and  croft. 
Heart's  dearest, 
Why  v dost  thou  sorrow  so? 

The  floor  with  tassels  of  fir  was  besprent, 
Filling  the  room  with  their  fragrant  scent. 

She  heard  the  birds  sing,  she  saw  the  sun  shine, 
The  air  of  summer  was  sweeter  than  wine. 

Like  a  sword  without  scabbard  the  bright  river  lay 
•  Between  her  own  kingdom  and  Norroway. 

But  Olaf  the  King  had  sued  for  her  hand, 

The  sword  would  be  sheathed,  the  river  be  spanned. 

Her  maidens  were  seated  around  her  knee, 
Working  bright  figures  in  tapestry. 

And  one  was  singing  the  ancient  rune 

Of  Brynhilda's  love  and  the  wrath  of  Gudrun. 

And  through  it,  and  round  it,  and  over  it  all 
Sounded  incessant  the  waterfall. 

61 


TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

The  Queen  in  her  hand  held  a  ring  of  gold, 
From  the  door  of  Lade"s  Temple  old. 

King  Olaf  had  sent  her  this  wedding  gift, 

But  her  thoughts  as  arrows  were  keen  and  swift. 

She  had  given  the  ring  to  her  goldsmiths  twain, 
Who  smiled,  as  they  handed  it  back  again. 

And  Sigrid  the  Queen,   in  her  haughty  way, 
Said,  "Why  do  you  smile,  my  goldsmiths,  say?" 

And   they  answered :    "  O  Queen !    if  the    truth    must    be 

told, 
The  ring  is  of  copper,  and  not  of  gold  ! " 

The  lightning  flashed  o'er  her  forehead  and  cheek, 
She  only  murmured,  she  did  not  speak  : 

"  If  in  his  gifts  he  can  faithless  be, 
There  will  be  no  gold  in  his  love  to  me." 

A  footstep  was  heard  on  the  outer  stair, 
And  in  strode  King  Olaf  with  royal  air. 

He  kissed  the  Queen's  hand,  and  he  whispered  of  love, 
And  swore  to  be  true  as  the  stars  are  above. 

But  she  smiled  with  contempt  as  she  answered  :  "  O  King, 
Will  you  swear  it,  as  Odin  once  swore,  on  the  ring?" 

62 


THE    SAGA    OF    KING    OLAF. 

And  the  King :  "  O  speak  not  of  Odin  to  me, 
The  wife  of  King  Olaf  a  Christian  must  be." 

Looking  straight  at  the  King,  with  her  level  brows, 
She  said,   "  I  keep  true  to  my  faith  and  my  vows." 

Then  the  face  of  King  Olaf  was  darkened  with  gloom, 
He  rose  in  his  anger  and  strode  through  the  room. 

"  Why,  then,  should  I  care  to  have  thee  ? "  he  said,  — 
"  A  faded  old  woman,  a  heathenish  jade  ! " 

His  zeal  was  stronger  than  fear  or  love, 

And  he  struck  the  Queen  in  the  face  with  his  glove. 

Then  forth  from  the  chamber  in  anger  he  fled, 
And  the  wooden  stairway  shook  with  his  tread. 

Queen  Sigrid  the  Haughty  said  under  her  breath, 
"  This  insult,  King  Olaf,  shall  be  thy  death ! " 

Heart's  dearest, 

Why  dost  thou  sorrow  so? 


TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 


V. 


THE    SKERRY   OF    SHRIEKS. 

NOW  from  all  King  Olaf's  farms 
His  men-at-arms 

Gathered  on  the  Eve  of  Easter; 
To  his  house  at  Angvalds-ness 

Fast  they  press, 
Drinking  with  the  royal  feaster. 

Loudly  through  the  wide-flung  door 

Came  the  roar 
Of  the  sea  upon  the  Skerry ; 
And  its  thunder  loud  and  near 

Reached  the  ear, 
Mingling  with  their  voices  merry. 

"Hark!"  said  Olaf  to  his  Scald, 

Halfred  the  Bald, 

"Listen  to  that  song,  and  learn  it! 
Half  my  kingdom  would  I  give, 

As  I  live, 
If  by  such  songs  you  would  earn  it ! 

"  For  of  all  the  runes  and  rhymes 

Of  all  times, 

Best  I  like  the  ocean's  dirges, 
64 


THE    SAGA    OF    KING   OLAF. 

When  the  old  harper  heaves  and  rocks, 

His  hoary  locks 
Flowing  and  flashing  in   the  surges ! " 

Halfred  answered  :  "  I  am  called 

The  Unappalled! 

Nothing  hinders  me  or  daunts  me. 
Hearken  to  me,    then,  O  King, 

While  I  sing 
The  great  Ocean  Song  that  haunts  me." 

"I  will  hear  your  song  sublime 

Some  other  time," 
Says  the  drowsy  monarch,  yawning, 
And  retires;  each  laughing  guest 

Applauds  the  jest; 
Then  they  sleep  till  day  is  dawning. 

Pacing  up  and  down  the  yard, 

King  Olaf's  guard 
Saw  the  sea-mist  slowly  creeping 
O'er  the  sands,  and  up  the  hill, 

Gathering  still 
Round  the  house  where  they  were  sleeping. 

It  was  not  the  fog  he  saw, 

Nor  misty  flaw, 

That  above  the  landscape  brooded; 
It  was  Eyvind  Kallda's  crew 

Of  warlocks  blue, 
With  their  caps  of  darkness  hooded ! 

9  65 


TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

Round  and  round  the  house  they  go,  ' 

Weaving  slow 
Magic  circles  to  encumber 
And  imprison  in  their  ring 

Olaf  the  King, 
As  he  helpless  lies  in  slumber. 

Then  athwart  the  vapors  dun 

The  Easter  sun 

Streamed  with  one  broad  track  of  splendor  ! 
In  their  real  forms  appeared 

The  warlocks  weird, 
Awful  as  the  Witch  of  Endor. 

Blinded  by  the  light  that  glared, 

They  groped  and  stared 
Round  about  with  steps  unsteady ; 
From  his  window  Olaf  gazed, 

And,  amazed, 
"Who  are  these  strange  people?"  said  he. 

"  Eyvind  Kallda  and  his  men  !  " 

Answered  then 

From  the  yard  a  sturdy  farmer; 
While  the  men-at-arms  apace 

Filled  the  place, 
Busily  buckling  on  their  armor. 

From  the  gates  they  sallied  forth, 

South  and  north, 
Scoured  the  island  coast  around  them, 

66 


THE    SAGA    OF    KING    OLAF. 

Seizing  all  the  warlock  band, 

Foot  and  hand 
On  the  Skerry's  rocks  they  bound  them. 

And  at  eve  the.  king  again 

Called  his  train, 

And,  with  all  the  candles  burning, 
Silent  sat  and  heard  once  more 

The  sullen  roar 
Of  the  ocean  tides  returning. 

Shrieks  and  cries  of  wild  despair 

Filled  the  air, 

Growing  fainter  as  they  listened  ; 
Then  the  bursting    surge  alone 

Sounded  on  ;  — 
Thus  the  sorcerers  were  christened ! 

"  Sing,  O  Scald,  your  song  sublime, 

Your  ocean-rhyme," 

Cried  King  Olaf:  "it  will  cheer  me!" 
Said  the  Scald,  with  pallid  cheeks, 

"  The  Skerry  of  Shrieks 
Sings  too  loud  for  you  to  hear  me ! " 


TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 


VI. 


THE   WRAITH   OF   ODIN. 

THE  guests  were  loud,  the  ale  was  strong, 
King  Olaf  feasted  late  and  long ; 
The  hoary  Scalds  together  sang ; 
O'erhead  the  smoky  rafters  rang. 

Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

The  door  swung  wide,  with  creak  and  din; 
A  blast  of  cold  night-air  came  in, 
And  on  the  threshold  shivering  stood 
A  one-eyed  guest,  with  cloak  and  hood. 

Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

The  King  exclaimed,  "  O  graybeard  pale ! 
Come  warm  thee  with  this  cup  of  ale." 
The  foaming  draught  the  old  man  quaffed, 
The  noisy  guests  looked  on  and  laughed. 
Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

Then  spake  the  King :  "  Be  not  afraid ; 
Sit  here  by  me."     The  guest  obeyed, 
And,  seated  at  the  table,  told 
Tales  of  the  sea,  and   Sagas  old. 

Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

68 


THE    SAGA    OF    KING    OLAF. 

And  ever,  when  the  tale  was  o'er, 
The  King  demanded  yet  one  more ; 
Till  Sigurd  the  Bishop  smiling  said, 
"  'T  is  late,  O  King,  and  time  for  bed." 

Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

The  King  retired ;  the  stranger  guest 
Followed  and  entered  with  the  rest; 
The  lights  were  out,  the  pages  gone, 
But  still  the  garrulous  guest  spake  on. 

Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

As  one  who  from  a  volume  reads, 
He  spake  of  heroes  and  their  deeds, 
Of  lands  and  cities  he  had  seen, 
And  stormy  gulfs  that  tossed  between. 

Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

Then  from  his  lips  in  music  rolled 
The  Havamal  of  Odin  old, 
With  sounds  mysterious  as  the  roar 
Of  billows  on  a  distant  shore. 

Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

"  Do  we  not  learn  from  runes  and  rhymes 
Made  by  the  gods  in  elder  times, 
And  do  not  still  the  great  Scalds  teach 
That  silence  better  is  than  speech  ? " 

Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 
69 


TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

Smiling  at  this,  the  King  replied, 
"  Thy  lore  is  by  thy  tongue  belied  ; 
For  never  was  I   so  enthralled 
Either  by  Saga-man  or  Scald." 

Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

The  Bishop  said,  "  Late  hours  we  keep ! 
Night  wanes,  O  King!  'tis  time  for  sleep!" 
Then  slept  the  King,  and  when  he  woke 
The  guest  was  gone,  the  morning  broke. 

Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

They  found  the  doors  securely  barred, 
They  found  the  watch-dog  in  the  yard, 
There  was  no  footprint  in  the  grass, 
And  none  had  seen  the  stranger  pass. 

Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

King  Olaf  crossed  himself  and  said : 
"I  know  that  Odin  the  Great  is  dead; 
Sure  is  the  triumph  of  our  Faith, 
The  one-eyed  stranger  was  his  wraith." 

Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 


THE    SAGA    OF    KING    OLAF. 


VII. 


IRON-BEARD. 


O 


ILAF  the  King,  one  summer  morn, 

Blew  a  blast  on  his  bugle-horn, 
Sending  his  signal  through  the  land  of  Drontheim. 


And  to  the  Hus-Ting  held  at  Mere 
Gathered  the  farmers  far  and  near, 
With  their  war  weapons  ready  to  confront  him. 

Ploughing  under  the  morning  star, 
Old  Iron-Beard  in  Yriar 
Heard  the  summons,  chuckling  with  a  low  laugh. 

He  wiped  the  sweat-drops  from  his  brow, 
Unharnessed  his  horses  from  the  plough, 
And  clattering  came  on  horseback  to  King  Olaf. 

He  was  the  churliest  of  the  churls ; 
Little  he  cared  for  king  or  earls ; 
Bitter  as  home-brewed  ale  were  his  foaming  passions. 

Hodden-gray  was  the  garb  he  wore, 
And  by  the  Hammer  of  Thor  he  swore ; 
He  hated  the  narrow  town,  and  all  its  fashions. 


THE    SAGA    OF    KING    OLAF. 

But  he  loved  the  freedom  of  his  farm, 
His  ale  at  night,  by  the  fireside  warm, 
Gudrun  his  daughter,  with  her  flaxen  tresses. 

He  loved  his  horses  and  his  herds, 
The  smell  of  the  earth,  and  the  song  of  birds, 
His  well-filled  barns,  his  brook  with  its  water-cresses. 

Huge  and  cumbersome  was  his  frame ; 
His  beard,  from  which  he  took  his  name, 
Frosty  and  fierce,  like  that  of  Hymer  the  Giant. 

So  at  the  Hus-Ting  he  appeared, 
The  farmer  of  Yriar,  Iron-Beard, 
On  horseback,  with  an  attitude  defiant. 

And  to  King  Olaf  he  cried  aloud, 
Out  of  the  middle  of  the  crowd, 
That  tossed  about  him  like  a  stormy  ocean  : 

"  Such  sacrifices'  shalt  thou  bring  ; 
To  Odin  and  to  Thor,  O  King, 
As  other  kings  have  done  in  their  devotion  ! " 

King  Olaf  answered  :   "  I  command 
This  land  to  be  a  Christian  land  ; 
Here  is  my  Bishop  who  the  folk  baptizes  ! 

"»But  if  you  ask  me  to  restore 
Your  sacrifices,  stained  with  gore, 
Then  will  I  offer  human  sacrifices ! 

10  73 


TALES    OF    A   WAYSIDE    INN. 

"  Not  slaves  and  peasants  shall  they  be, 
But  men  of  note  and  high  degree, 
Such  men  as  Orm  of  Lyra  and  Kar  of  Gryting ! " 

Then  to  their  Temple  strode  he  in, 
And  loud  behind  him  heard  the  din 
Of  his  men-at-arms  and  the  peasants  fiercely  fighting. 

There  in  the  Temple,  carved  in  wood, 
The  image  of  great  Odin  stood, 
And  other  gods,  with  Thor  supreme  among  them. 

King  Olaf  smote  them  with  the  blade 
Of  his  huge  war-axe,  gold  inlaid, 
And  downward  shattered  to  the  pavement  flung  them. 

At  the  same  moment  rose  without, 
From  the  contending  crowd,  a  shout, 
A  mingled  sound  of  triumph  and  of  wailing. 

And  there  upon  the  trampled  plain 
The  farmer  Iron-Beard   lay  slain, 
Midway  between  the  assailed  and  the  assailing. 

King  Olaf  from  the  doorway  spoke  : 
"  Choose  ye  between  two  things,  my  folk, 
To  be  baptized  or  given  up  to  slaughter!" 

And  seeing  their  leader  stark  and  dead, 
The  people  with  a  murmur  said, 
"  O  King,  baptize  us  with  thy  holy  water ! " 


THE    SAGA    OF    KING    OLAF. 

So  all  the  Drontheim  land  became 
A  Christian  land  in  name  and  fame, 
In  the  old  gods  no  more  believing  and  trusting. 

And  as  a  blood-atonement,  soon 
King  Olaf  wed  the  fair  Gudrun ; 
And  thus  in  peace  ended  the  Drontheim  Hus-Ting ! 


75 


TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 


VIII. 
GUDRUN. 

ON  King  Olaf's  bridal  night 
Shines  the  moon  with  tender  light, 
And  across  the  chamber  streams 
Its  tide  of  dreams. 

At  the  fatal  midnight  hour, 
When  all  evil  things  have  power, 
In  the  glimmer  of  the  moon 
Stands  Gudrun. 

Close  against  her  heaving  breast, 
Something  in  her  hand  is  pressed; 
Like  an  icicle,  its  sheen 
Is  cold  and  keen. 

On  the  cairn  are  fixed  her  eyes 
Where  her  murdered  father  lies, 
And  a  voice  remote  and  drear 
She  seems  to  hear. 

What  a  bridal  night  is  this ! 
Cold  will  be  the  dagger's  kiss ; 
Laden  with  the  chill  of  death 

Is  its  breath. 

76 


THE    SAGA    OF    KING    OLAF. 

Like  the  drifting  snow  she  sweeps 
To  the  couch  where  Olaf  sleeps  j 
Suddenly  he  wakes  and  stirs, 
His  eyes  meet  hers. 

"  What  is  that,"  King  Olaf  said, 
"Gleams  so  bright  above  thy  head? 
Wherefore  standest  thou  so  white 
In  pale  moonlight  ? " 

"  'T  is  "the  bodkin  that  I  wear 
When  at  night  I  bind  my  hair ; 
It  woke  me  falling  on  the  floor; 
'T  is  nothing  more." 

"  Forests  have  ears,  and  fields  have  eyes ; 
Often  treachery  lurking  lies 
Underneath  the  fairest  hair ! 
Gudrun,  beware ! " 

Ere  the  earliest  peep  of  morn 
Blew  King  Olaf's  bugle-horn ; 
And  forever  sundered  ride 
Bridegroom  and  bride ! 


77 


TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 


IX. 


THANGBRAND   THE   PRIEST. 

SHORT  of  stature,  large  of  limb, 
Burly  face  and  russet  beard, 
All  the  women  stared  at  him, 
When  in  Iceland  he  appeared. 
"Look!"  they  said, 
With  nodding  head, 
"  There  goes  Thangbrand,  Olafs  Priest. 

All  the  prayers  he  knew  by  rote, 

He  could  preach  like  Chrysostome, 
From  the  Fathers  he  could  quote, 
He  had  even  been  at  Rome. 
A  learned  clerk, 
A  man  of  mark, 
Was  this  Thangbrand,  Olafs  Priest. 

He  was  quarrelsome  and  loud, 

And  impatient  of  control, 
Boisterous  in  the  market  crowd, 
Boisterous  at  the  wassail-bowl, 
Everywhere 

Would  drink  and  swear 

Swaggering  Thangbrand,  Olafs  Priest. 

78 


THE    SAGA    OF    KING    OLAF. 

In  his  house  this  malecontent 

Could  the  King  no  longer  bear  ; 
So  to  Iceland  he  was  sent 
To  convert  the  heathen  there, 
And   away 
One  summer  day 
Sailed  this  Thangbrand,  Olaf's  Priest. 

There  in  Iceland,  o'er  their  books 
Pored  the  people  day  and  night, 
But  he  did  not  like  their  looks, 
Nor  the  songs  they  used  to  write. 
"All  this  rhyme 
Is  waste  of  time  !  " 
Grumbled  Thangbrand,  Olaf's  Priest. 

To  the  alehouse,  where  he  sat, 

Came  the  Scalds  and  Saga-men  ; 
Is  it  to  be  wondered  at, 

That  they  quarrelled  now  and  then, 
When  o'er  his  beer 
Began  to  leer 
Drunken  Thangbrand,  Olaf's  Priest  ? 

All  the  folk  in  Altafiord 

Boasted  of  their  island  grand; 
Saying  in  a  single  word, 
"Iceland  is  the  finest  land 
That  the  sun 
Doth  shine  upon  ! " 
Loud  laughed  Thangbrand,  Olaf's  Priest. 

79 


TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

And  he  answered:  "What's  the  use* 

Of  this  bragging  up  and  down, 
When   three  women  and  one  goose 
Make  a  market  in  your  town ! " 
Every  Scald 
Satires  scrawled 
On  poor  Thangbrand,  Olaf's  Priest. 

Something  worse  they  did  than  that ; 

And  what  vexed  him  most  of  all 
Was  a  figure  in  shovel  hat, 

Drawn  in  charcoal  on  the  wall ; 
With  words  that  go 
Sprawling  below, 
"This  is  Thangbrand,  Olaf's  Priest." 

Hardly  knowing  what  he  did, 

Then  he  smote  them  might  and  main, 
Thorvald  Veile  and  Veterlid 
Lay  there  in  the  alehouse  slain. 
"To-day  we  are  gold, 
To-morrow  mould  ! " 
Muttered  Thangbrand,  Olaf's  Priest. 

Much  in  fear  of  axe  and  rope, 

Back  to  Norway  sailed  he  then. 
"O  King  Olaf!  little  hope 

Is  there  of  these  Iceland  men ! " 
Meekly  said, 
With  bending  head, 
Pious  Thangbrand,  Olaf's  Priest. 


THE    SAGA    OF    KING    OLAF. 


X. 


RAUD    THE    STRONG. 

a   A   LL  the  old  gods  are  dead, 

-tX  All  the  wild  warlocks  fled; 
But  the  White  Christ  lives  and  reigns, 
And  throughout  my  wide  domains 
His  Gospel  shall  be  spread!" 

On  the  Evangelists 

Thus  swore  King  Olaf. 

But  still  in  dreams  of  the  night 
Beheld  he  the  crimson  light, 
And  heard  the  voice  that  defied 
Him  who  was  crucified, 
And  challenged  him  to  the  fight. 

To  Sigurd  the  Bishop 

King  Olaf  confessed  it. 

And  Sigurd  the  Bishop  said, 
"The  old  gods  are  not  dead, 
For  the  great  Thor  still  reigns, 
And  among  the  Jarls  and  Thanes 
The  old  witchcraft  still  is  spread." 

Thus  to  King  Olaf 

Said  Sigurd  the  Bishop. 

ii  81 


TALES    OF    A   WAYSIDE    INN. 

"  Far  north  in  the  Salten  Fiord, 

By  rapine,  fire,  and  sword, 

Lives  the  Viking,  Raud  the  Strong; 

All  the  Godoe  Isles  belong 

To  him  and  his  heathen  horde." 

Thus  went  on  speaking 

Sigurd  the  Bishop. 

"A  warlock,  a  wizard  is  he, 

And  lord  of  the  wind  and  the  sea ; 

And  whichever  way  he  sails, 

He  has  ever  favoring  gales, 

By  his  craft  in  sorcery." 

Here  the  sign  of  the  cross  made 

Devoutly  King  Olaf. 

"  With  rites  that  we  both  abhor, 
He  worships  Odin  and  Thor; 
So  it  cannot  yet  be  said, 
That  all  the  old  gods  are  dead, 
And  the  warlocks  are  no  more," 

Flushing  with  anger 

Said  Sigurd  the  Bishop. 

Then  King  Olaf  cried  aloud: 
"  I  will  talk  with  this  mighty  Raucl, 
And  along  the-  Salten  Fiord 
Preach  the  Gospel  with  my  sword, 
Or  be  brought  back  in  my  shroud  !  " 
So  northward  from  Drontheim 

Sailed  King  Olaf! 
82 


THE    SAGA    OF    KING    OLAF. 


XI. 


BISHOP    SIGURD    AT    SALTEN    FIORD. 

LOUD  the  angry  wind  was  wailing 
As  King  Olaf  s  ships  came  sailing 
Northward  out  of  Drontheim  haven 
To  the  mouth  of  Salten  Fiord. 

Though  the  flying  sea-spray  drenches 
Fore  and  aft  the  rowers'  benches, 
Not  a  single  heart  is  craven 

Of  the  champions  there  on  board. 

All  without  the  Fiord  was  quiet, 
But  within  it  storm  and  riot, 
Such  as  on  his  Viking  cruises 

Raud  the  Strong  was  wont  to  ride. 

And  the  sea  through  all  its  tide-ways 
Swept  the  reeling  vessels  sideways, 
As  the  leaves  are  swept  through  sluices, 
When  the  flood-gates  open  wide. 

"  'T  is  the  warlock !   't  is  the  demon 
Raud  ! "  cried  Sigurd  to  the  seamen  ; 
*'  But  the  Lord  is  not  affrighted 
By  the  witchcraft  of  his  foes." 

83 


TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

To  the  ship's  bow  he  ascended, 
By  his  choristers  attended, 
Round  him  were  the  tapers  lighted, 
And  the  sacred  incense  rose. 

On  the  bow  stood  Bishop  Sigurd, 
In  his  robes,  as  one  transfigured, 
And  the  Crucifix  he  planted 

High  amid  the  rain  and  mist. 

Then  with  holy  water  sprinkled 
All  the  ship ;  the  mass-bells  tinkled ; 
Loud  the  monks  around  him  chanted, 
Loud  he  read  the  Evangelist. 

As  into  the  Fiord  they  darted, 
On  each  side  the  water  parted  \ 
Down  a  path  like  silver  molten 

Steadily  rowed  King  Olaf's  ships; 

Steadily  burned  all  night  the  tapers, 
And  the  White  Christ  through  the  vapors 
Gleamed  across  the  Fiord  of  Salten, 
As  through  John's  Apocalypse,  — 

Till  at  last  they  reached  Raud's  dwelling 
On  the  little  isle  of  Gelling ; 
Not  a  guard  was  at  the  doorway, 

Not  a  glimmer  of  light  was  seen. 

84 


THE    SAGA    OF    KING    OLAF. 

But  at  anchor,  carved  and  gilded, 
Lay  the  dragon-ship  he  builded ; 
JT  was  the  grandest  ship  in  Norway, 
With  its  crest  and  scales  of  green. 

Up  the  stairway  softly  creeping, 
To  the  loft  where  Raud  was  sleeping, 
With  their  fists  they  burst  asunder 
Bolt  and  bar  that  held  the  door. 

Drunken  with  sleep  and  ale  they  found  him, 
Dragged  him  from  his  bed  and  bound  him, 
While  he  stared  with  stupid  wonder 
At  the  look  and  garb  they  wore. 

Then  King  Olaf  said  :  "  O  Sea-King ! 
Little  time  have  we  for  speaking; 
Choose  between  the  good  and  evil ; 
Be  baptized,  or  thou  shalt  die  !  " 

But  in  scorn  the  heathen  scoffer 
Answered:  "I  disdain  thine  offer; 
Neither  fear  I  God  nor  Devil ; 

Thee  and  thy  Gospel  I  defy  ! " 

Then  between  his  jaws  distended, 
When  his  frantic  struggles  ended, 
Through  King  Olaf's  horn  an  adder, 

Touched  by  fire,  they  forced  to  glide. 

85 


TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

Sharp  his  tooth  was  as  an  arrow, 

As  he  gnawed  through  bone  and  marrow ; 

But  without  a  groan  or  shudder, 

Raud  the  Strong  blaspheming  died. 

Then  baptized  they  all  that  region, 
Swarthy  Lap  and  fair  Norwegian, 
Far  as  swims  the  salmon,  leaping, 
Up  the  streams  of  Salten  Fiord. 

In  their  temples  Thor  and  Odin 
Lay  in  dust  and  ashes  trodden, 
As  King  Olaf,  onward  sweeping, 

Preached  the  Gospel  with  his  sword. 

Then  he  took  the  carved  and  gilded 
Dragon-ship  that  Raud  had  builded, 
And  the  tiller  single-handed, 

Grasping,  steered  into  the  main. 

Southward  sailed  the  sea-gulls  o'er  him, 
Southward  sailed  the  ship  that  bore  him, 
Till  at  Drontheim  haven  landed 
Olaf  and  his  crew  again. 


THE   SAGA   OF    KING   OLAF. 
XII. 

KING  OLAF'S  CHRISTMAS. 

AT  Drontheim,  Olaf  the  King 
Heard  the  bells  of  Yule-tide  ring, 
As  he  sat  in  his  banquet-hall, 
Drinking  the  nut-brown  ale, 
With  his  bearded  Berserks  hale 
And  tall. 

Three  days  his  Yule-tide  feasts 
He  held  with  Bishops  and  Priests, 

And  his  horn  filled  up  to  the  brim  ; 
But  the  ale  was  never  too  strong, 
Nor  the  Saga-man's  tale  too  long, 

For  him. 

O'er  his  drinking-horn,  the  sign 
He  made  of  the  cross  divine, 

As  he  drank,  and  muttered  his  prayers ; 
But  the  Berserks  evermore 
Made  the  sign  of  the  Hammer  of  Thor 

Over  theirs. 

The  gleams  of  the  fire-light  dance 
Upon  helmet  and  hauberk  and  lance, 
And  laugh  in  the  eyes  of  the  King ; 
87 


TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

And  he  cries  to  Halfred  the  Scald, 
Gray-bearded,  wrinkled,  and  bald 
"  Sing ! " 

"  Sing  me  a  song  divine, 
With  a  sword  in  every  line, 

And  this  shall  be  thy  reward." 
And  he  loosened  the  belt  at  his  waist, 
And  in  front  of  the  singer  placed 

His  sword. 

"  Quern-biter  of  Hakon  the  Good, 
Wherewith  at  a  stroke  he  hewed 

The  millstone  through  and  through, 
And  Foot-breadth  of  Thoralf  the  Strong, 
Were  neither  so  broad  nor  so  long, 

Nor  so  true." 

Then  the  Scald  took  his  harp  and  sang, 
And  loud  through  the  music  rang 

The  sound  of  that  shining  word ; 
And  the  harp-strings  a  clangor  made, 
As  if  they  were  struck  with  the  blade 

Of  a  sword. 

And  the  Berserks  round  about 
Broke  forth  into  a  shout 

That  made  the  rafters  ring : 
They  smote  with  their  fists  on  the  board, 
And  shouted,  "  Long  live  the  Sword, 

And  the  King  !  " 


THE    SAGA    OF    KING    OLAF. 

But  the  King  said,   "O  my  son, 
I  miss  the  bright  word  in  one 

Of  thy  measures  and  thy  rhymes." 
And  Halfred  the  Scald  replied, 
"  In  another  't  was  multiplied 

Three  times." 

Then  King  Olaf  raised  the  hilt 
Of  iron,  cross-shaped  and  gilt, 

And  said,  "  Do  not  refuse  ; 
Count  well  the  gain  and  the  loss, 
Thor's  hammer  or  Christ's  cross  : 

Choose  ! " 

And  Halfred  the  Scald  said,   "This 
In  the  name  of  the  Lord  I  kiss, 

Who  on  it  was  crucified  ! " 
And  a  shout  went  round  the  board, 
"In  the  name  of  Christ  the  Lord, 

Who  died  !  " 

Then  over  the  waste  of  snows 
The  noonday  sun  uprose, 

Through  the  driving  mists  revealed, 
Like  the  lifting  of  the  Host, 
By  incense-clouds  almost 

Concealed. 

On  the  shining  wall  a  vast 
And  shadowy  cross  was  cast 

From  the  hilt  of  the  lifted  sword, 
And  in  foaming  cups  of  ale 
The  Berserks  drank  "Was-hael! 

To  the  Lord  !  " 
89 


TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 


XIII. 
THE   BUILDING   OF   THE   LONG  SERPENT. 

THORBERG  SKAFTING,  master-builder, 
In  his  ship-yard  by  the  sea, 
Whistling,  said,   "It  would  bewilder 
Any  man  but  Thorberg  Skafting, 
Any  man  but  me  ! " 

Near  him  lay  the  Dragon  stranded, 
Built  of  old  by  Raud  the  Strong, 

And  King  Olaf  had  commanded 

He  should  build  another  Dragon, 
Twice  as  large  and  long. 

Therefore  whistled  Thorberg  Skafting, 
As  he  sat  with  half-closed  eyes, 

And  his  head  turned  sideways,  drafting 

That  new  vessel  for  King  Olaf 
Twice  the  Dragon's  size. 

Round  him  busily  hewed  and  hammered 

Mallet  huge  and  heavy  axe  ; 
Workmen  laughed  and  sang  and  clamored ; 
Whirred  the  wheels,  that  into  rigging 

Spun  the  shining  flax ! 


TALES    OF   A   WAYSIDE    INN. 

All  this  tumult  heard  the  master,  — 

It  was  music  to  his  ear; 
Fancy  whispered  all  the  faster, 
"  Men  shall  hear  of  Thorberg  Skafting 

For  a  hundred  year!" 

Workmen  sweating  at  the  forges 

Fashioned  iron  bolt  and  bar, 
Like  a  warlock's  midnight  orgies 
Smoked  and  bubbled  the  black  caldron 
With  the  boiling  tar. 

Did  the  warlocks  mingle  in  it, 

Thorberg  Skafting,  any  curse  ? 
Could  you  not  be  gone  a  minute 
But  some  mischief  must  be  doing, 
Turning  bad  to  worse  ? 

'T  was  an  ill  wind  that  came  wafting 
From  his  homestead  words  of  woe ; 

To  his  farm  went  Thorberg  Skafting, 

Oft  repeating  to  his  workmen, 
Build  ye  thus  and  so. 

After  long  delays  returning 

Came  the  master  back  by  night ; 
To  his  ship-yard  longing,  yearning, 
Hurried  he,  and  did  not  leave  it 

Till  the  morning's  light. 
93 


THE    SAGA    OF    KING    OLAF. 

"  Come  and  see  my  ship,  my  darling  ! " 
On  the  morrow  said  the  King; 

"  Finished  now  from  keel  to  carling ; 

Never  yet  was  seen  in  Norway 
Such  a  wondrous  thing  !  " 

In  the  ship-yard,  idly  talking, 

At  the  ship  the  workmen  stared  : 
Some  one,  all  their  labor  balking, 
Down  her  sides  had  cut  deep  gashes, 
Not  a  plank  was  spared ! 

"  Death  be  to  the  evil-doer !  " 

With  an  oath  King  Olaf  spoke ; 
"But  rewards  to  his  pursuer!" 
And  with  wrath  his  face  grew  redder 
Than  his  scarlet  cloak. 

Straight  the  master-builder,  smiling, 
Answered  thus  the  angry  King  : 

"  Cease  blaspheming  and  reviling, 

Olaf,  it  was  Thorberg  Skafting 
Who  has  done  this  thing!" 

Then  he  chipped  and  smoothed  the  planking, 
Till  the  King,  delighted,  swore, 

With  much  lauding  and  much  thanking, 

"Handsomer  is  now  my  Dragon 
Than  she  was  before  !  " 

93 


TALES    OF   A   WAYSIDE   INN. 

Seventy  ells  and  four  extended 

On  the  grass  the  vessel's  keel ; 

High  above  it,  gilt  and  splendid, 

Rose  the  figure-head  ferocious, 
With  its  crest  of  steel. 

Then  they  launched  her  from  the  tressels, 

In  the  ship-yard  by  the  sea; 
She  was  the  grandest  of  all  vessels, 
Never  ship  was  built  in  Norway 
Half  so  fine  as  she  ! 

The  Long  Serpent  was  she  christened, 
'Mid  the  roar  of  cheer  on  cheer ! 
They  who  to  the  Saga  listened 
Heard  the  name  of  Thorberg  Skafting 
For  a  hundred  year. 


94 


THE  SAGA  OF  KING  OLAF. 


XIV. 
THE  CREW  OF  THE  LONG  SERPENT. 

SAFE  at  anchor  in  Drontheim  bay 
King  Olaf's  fleet  assembled  lay, 
And,  striped  with  white  and  blue, 
Downward  fluttered  sail  and  banner, 
As  alights  the  screaming  lanner ; 
Lustily  cheered,  in  their  wild  manner, 
The  Long  Serpent's  crew. 

Her  forecastle  man  was  Ulf  the  Red ; 
Like  a  wolf's  was  his  shaggy  head, 

His  teeth  as  large  and  white ; 
His  beard,  of  gray  and  russet  blended, 
Round  as  a  swallow's  nest  descended ; 
As  standard-bearer  he  defended 

Olaf's  flag  in  the  fight. 

Near  him  Kolbiorn  had  his  place, 
Like  the  King  in  garb  and  face, 

So  gallant  and  so  hale  ; 
Every  cabin-boy  and  varlet 
Wondered  at  his  cloak  of  scarlet ; 
Like  a  river,  frozen  and  star-lit, 

Gleamed  his  coat  of  mail. 


TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

By  the  bulkhead,  tall  and  dark, 
Stood  Thrand  Rame  of  Thelemark, 

A  figure  gaunt  and  grand ; 
On  his  hairy  arm  imprinted 
Was  an  anchor,  azure-tinted ; 
Like  Thor's  hammer,  huge  and  dinted 

Was  his  brawny  hand. 

Einar  Tamberskelver,  bare 
To  the  winds  his  golden  hair, 

By  the  mainmast  stood ; 
Graceful  was  his  form,  and  slender, 
And  his  eyes  were  deep  and  tender 
As  a  woman's,  in  the  splendor 

Of  her  maidenhood. 

In  the  fore-hold  Biorn  and  Bork 
Watched  the  sailors  at  their  work  : 

Heavens  !  how  they  swore  ! 
Thirty  men  they  each  commanded, 
Iron-sinewed,  horny-handed, 
Shoulders  broad,  and  chests  expanded, 

Tugging  at  the  oar. 

These,  and  many  more  like  these, 
With  King  Olaf  sailed  the  seas, 

Till  the  waters  vast 
Filled  them  with  a  vague  devotion, 
With  the  freedom  and  the  motion, 
With  the  roll  and  roar  of  ocean 

And  the  sounding  blast. 
96 


THE    SAGA    OF    KING    OLAF. 

When  they  landed  from  the  fleet, 

How  they  roared  through  Drontheim's  street, 

Boisterous  as  the  gale  !  *' 

How  they  laughed  and  stamped  and  pounded. 
Till  the  tavern  roof  resounded, 
And  the  host  looked  on  astounded 

As  they  drank  the  ale  ! 

Never  saw  the  wild  North  Sea 
Such  a  gallant  company 

Sail  its  billows  blue ! 

Never,  while  they  cruised  and  quarrelled, 
Old  King  Gorm,  or  Blue -Tooth  Harald, 
Owned  a  ship  so  well  apparelled, 

Boasted  such  a  crew  ! 


TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 


XV. 


A   LITTLE  BIRD    IN   THE   AIR. 

A  LITTLE  bird  in  the  air 
Is  singing  of  Thyri  the  fair, 
The  sister  of  Svend  the  Dane ; 
And  the  song  of  the  garrulous  bird 
In  the  streets  of  the  town  is  heard, 
And  repeated  again  and  again. 
Hoist  up  your  sails  of  silk, 
And  flee  away  from  each  other. 

To  King  Burislaf,  it  is  said, 
Was  the  beautiful  Thyri  wed, 

And  a  sorrowful  bride  went  she ; 
And  after  a  week  and  a  day, 
She  has  fled  away  and  away, 

From  his  town  by  the  stormy  sea. 
Hoist  up  your  sails  of  silk, 
And  flee  away  from  each  other. 

They  say,  that  through  heat  and  through  cold, 
Through  weald,  they  say,  and  through  wold, 

By  day  and  by  night,  they  say, 
She  has  fled;  and  the  gossips  report 
She  has  come  to  King  Olaf's  court, 
98 


THE    SAGA    OF    KING    OLAF. 

And  the  town  is  all  in  dismay. 
Hoist  up  your  sails  of  silk, 
And  flee  away  from  each  other. 

It  is  whispered  King  Olaf  has  seen, 
Has  talked  with  the  beautiful  Queen  ; 
And  they  wonder  how  it  will  end ; 
For  surely,  if  here  she  remain, 
It  is  war  with  King  Svend  the  Dane, 
And  King  Burislaf  the  Vend  ! 
Hoist  up  your  sails  of  silk, 
And  flee  away  from  each  other. 

O,  greatest  wonder  of  all  ! 

It  is  published  in  hamlet  and  hall, 

It  roars  like  a  flame  that  is  fanned  ! 
The  King  —  yes,  Olaf  the  King  — 
Has  wedded  her  with  his  ring, 
And  Thyri  is  Queen  in  the  land  ! 
Hoist  up  your  sails  of  silk, 
And  flee  away  from  each  other. 


<w 


TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 


XVI. 
QUEEN   THYRI   AND   THE   ANGELICA   STALKS. 

NORTHWARD  over  Drontheim 
Flew  the  clamorous  sea-gulls, 
Sang  the  lark  and  linnet 
From  the  meadows  green  ; 

Weeping  in  her  chamber, 
Lonely  and  unhappy, 
Sat  the  Drottning  Thyri, 
Sat  King  Olaf's  Queen. 

In  at  all  the  windows 
Streamed  the  pleasant  sunshine, 
On  the  roof  above  her 
Softly  cooed  the  dove; 

But  the  sound  she  heard  not, 
Nor  the  sunshine  heeded, 
For  the  thoughts  of  Thyri 
Were  not  thoughts  of  love. 

Then  King  Olaf  entered, 
Beautiful  as  morning, 
Like  the  sun  at  Easter 
Shone  his  happy  face  ; 


THE    SAGA    OF    KING    OLAF. 

In  his  hand  he  carried 
Angelicas  uprooted, 
With  delicious  fragrance 
Filling  all  the  place. 

Like  a  rainy  midnight 
Sat  the  Drottning  Thyri, 
Even  the  smile  of  Olaf 

Could  not  cheer  her  gloom  ; 

Nor  the  stalks  he  gave  her 
With  a  gracious  gesture, 
And  with  words  as  pleasant 
As  their  own  perfume. 

In  her  hands  he  placed  them, 
And  her  jewelled  fingers 
Through  the  green  leaves  glistened 
Like  the  dews  of  morn  ; 

But  she  cast  them  from  her, 
Haughty  and  indignant, 
On  the  floor  she  threw  them 
With  a  look  of  scorn. 

"  Richer  presents,"  said  she, 
"  Gave  King  Harald  Gormson 
To  the  Queen,  my  mother, 
Than  such  worthless  weeds ; 


TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

"When  he  ravaged  Norway, 
Laying  waste  the  kingdom, 
Seizing  scatt  and  treasure 
For  her  royal  needs. 

"  But  .thou  darest  not  venture 
Through  the  Sound  to  Vendland, 
My  domains  to  rescue 
From  King  Burislaf; 

"  Lest  K!ing  Svend  of  Denmark, 
Forked  Beard,  my  brother, 
Scatter  all  thy  vessels 
As  the  wind  the  chaff." 

Then  up  sprang  King  Olaf, 
Like  a  reindeer  bounding, 
With  an  oath  he  answered 
Thus  the  luckless  Queen  : 

"Never  yet  did  Olaf 
Fear  King  Svend  of  Denmark  ; 
This  right  hand  shall  hale  him 
By  his  forked  chin  !  " 

Then  he  left  the  chamber, 
Thundering  through  the  doorway, 
Loud  his  steps  resounded 
Down  the  outer  stair. 

Smarting  with  the  insult, 
Through  the  streets  of  Drontheim 


THE    SAGA    OF    KING    OLAF. 

Strode  he  red  and  wrathful, 
With  his  stately  air. 

All  his  ships  he  gathered, 
Summoned  all  his  forces, 
Making  his  war  levy 
In  the  region  round  ; 

Down  the  coast  of  Norway, 
Like  a  flock  of  sea-gulls, 
Sailed  the  fleet  of  Olaf 

Through  the  Danish  Sound. 

With  his  own  hand  fearless 
Steered  he  the  Long  Serpent, 
Strained  the  creaking  cordage, 
Bent  each  boom  and  gaff; 

Till  in  Vendland  landing, 
The  domains  of  Thyri 
He  redeemed  and  rescued 
From  King  Burislaf. 

Then  said  Olaf,  laughing, 
"  Not  ten  yoke  of  oxen 
Have  the  power  to  draw  us 
Like  a  woman's  hair ! 

"Now  will  I  confess  it, 
Better  things  are  jewels 
Than  angelica  stalks  are 
For  a  Queen  to  wear." 
103 


TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 


XVII. 
KING   SVEND   OF   THE   FORKED    BEARD. 

LOUDLY  the  sailors  cheered 
Svend  of  the  Forked  Beard, 
As  with  his  fleet  he  steered 
Southward  to  Vendland  ; 
Where  with  their  courses  hauled 
All  were  together  called, 
Under  the  Isle  of  Svald 
Near  to  the  mainland. 

After  Queen  Gunhild's  death, 
So  the  old  Saga  saith, 
Plighted  King  Svend  his  faith 

To  Sigrid  the  Haughty; 
And  to  avenge  his  bride, 
Soothing  her  wounded  pride, 
Over  the  waters  wide 

King  Olaf  sought  he. 

Still  on  her  scornful  face, 
Blushing  with  deep  disgrace, 
Bore  she  the  crimson  trace 
Of  Olaf's  gauntlet; 


THE    SAGA    OF    KINO    OLAF. 

Like  a  malignant  star, 
Blazing  in  heaven  afar, 
Red  shone  the  angry  scar 
Under  her  frontlet. 

Oft  to  King  Svend  she  spake, 
"  For  thine  own  honor's  sake 
Shalt  thou  swift  vengeance  take 

On  the  vile  coward  !  " 
Until  the  King  at  last, 
Gusty  and  overcast, 
Like  a  tempestuous  blast 

Threatened  and  lowered. 

Soon  as  the  Spring  appeared, 
Svend  of  the  Forked  Beard 
High  his  red  standard  reared, 

Eager  for  battle ; 
While  every  warlike  Dane, 
Seizing  his  arms  again, 
Left  all  unsown  the  grain, 

Unhoused  the  cattle. 

Likewise  the  Swedish  King 
Summoned  in  haste  a  Thing, 
Weapons  and  men  to  bring 

In  aid  of  Denmark ; 
Eric  the  Norseman,  too, 
As  the  war-tidings  flew, 
Sailed  with  a  chosen  crew 

From  Lapland  and  Finmark. 


TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

So  upon  Easter  day 

Sailed  the  three  kings  away, 

Out  of  the  sheltered  bay, 

In  the  bright  season ; 
With  them  Earl  Sigvald  came, 
Eager  for  spoil  and  fame; 
Pity  that  such  a  name 

Stooped  to  such  treason  ! 

Safe  under  Svald  at  last, 
Now  were  their  anchors  cast, 
Safe  from  the  sea  and  blast, 

Plotted  the  three  kings; 
While,  with  a  base  intent, 
Southward  Earl  Sigvald  went, 
On  a  foul  errand  bent, 

Unto  the  Sea-kings. 

Thence  to  hold  on  his  course, 
Unto  King  Olaf's  force, 
Lying  within  tlie  hoarse 

Mouths  of  Stet-haven; 
Him  to  ensnare  and  bring, 
Unto  the  Danish  king, 
Who  his  dead  corse  would  fling 

Forth  to  the  raven  ! 


1 06 


THE    SAGA    OF    KING    OLAF. 


XVIII. 
KING   OLAF   AND   EARL   SIGVALD. 

ON  the  gray  sea-sands 
King  Olaf  stands, 
Northward  and  seaward 
He  points  with  his  hands. 

With  eddy  and  twhirl 
The  sea-tides  curl, 
Washing  the  sandals 
Of  Sigvald  the  Earl. 

The  mariners  shout, 
The  ships  swing  about, 
The  yards  are  all  hoisted, 
The  sails  flutter  out. 

The  war-horns  are  played, 
The  anchors  are  weighed, 
Like  moths  in  the  distance  * 
The  sails  flit  and  fade. 

The  sea  is  like  lead, 

The  harbor  lies  dead, 

As  a  corse  on  the  sea-shore, 

Whose  spirit  has  fled ! 
107 


TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

On  that  fatal  day, 
The  histories  say, 
Seventy  vessels 
Sailed  out  of  the  bay. 

But  soon  scattered  wide 
O'er  the  billows  they  ride, 
While  Sigvald  and  Olaf 
Sail  side  by  side. 

Cried  the  Earl :  "  Follow  me ! 
I  your  pilot  A  will  be, 
For  I  know  all  the  channels 
Where  flows  the  deep  sea  ! " 

So  into  the  strait 
Where  his  foes  lie  in  wait, 
Gallant  King  Olaf 
Sails  to  his  fate  ! 

Then  the  sea-fog  veils 
The  ships  and  their  sails  ; 
Queen  Sigrid  the  Haughty, 
Thy  vengeance  prevails  ! 


108 


THE    SAGA    OF    KING    OLAF. 


XIX. 
KING  OLAF'S   WAR-HORNS. 

"QTRIKE  the  sails!"  King  Olaf  said; 

^   "  Never  shall  men  of  mine  take  flight ; 
Never  away  from  battle  I  fled, 
Never  away  from  my  foes  ! 

Let  God  dispose 
Of  my  life  in  the  fight !  " 

"  Sound  the  horns  ! "  said  Olaf  the  King ; 
And  suddenly  through  the  drifting  brume 
The  blare  of  the  horns  began  to  ring, 
Like  the  terrible  trumpet  shock 

Of  Regnarock, 
On  the  Day  of  Doom  ! 

Louder  and  louder  the  war-horns  sang 
Over  the  level  floor  of  the  flood  ; 
All  the  sails  came  down  with  a  clang, 
And  there  in  the  mist  overhead 

The  sun  hung  red 
As  a  drop  of  blood. 

Drifting  down  on  the  Danish  fleet 
Three  together  the  ships  were  lashed, 
So  that  neither  should  turn  and  retreat ; 
109 


TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

In  the  midst,  but  in  front  of  the  rest,    ' 

The  burnished  crest 
Of  the  Serpent  flashed. 

King  Olaf  stood  on  the  quarter-deck, 
With  bow.of  ash  and  arrows  of  oak, 
His  gilded  shield  was  without  a  fleck, 
His  helmet  inlaid  with  gold, 

And  in  many  a  fold 
Hung  his  crimson  cloak. 

On  the  forecastle  Ulf  the  Red 
Watched  the  lashing  of  the  ships  ; 
"If  the  Serpent  lie  so  far  ahead, 
We  shall  have  hard  work  of  it  here," 

Said  he  with  a  sneer 
On  his  bearded  lips. 

King  Olaf  laid  an  arrow  on  string, 
"  Have  I  a  coward  on  board  ? "  said  he. 
"  Shoot  it  another  way,  O  King  ! " 
Sullenly  answered  Ulf, 
The  old  sea- wolf; 
"  You  have  need  of  me  !  " 

In  front  came  Svend,  the  King  of  the  Danes, 
Sweeping  down  with  his  fifty  rowers  ; 
To  the  right,  the  Swedish  king  with  his  thanes ; 
And  on  board  of  the  Iron  Beard 

Earl  Eric  steered 
On  the  left  with  his  oars. 


THE    SAGA    OF    KING    OLAF. 

"These  soft  Danes  and  Swedes,"  said  the  King, 
"  At  home  with  their  wives  had  better  stay, 
Than  come  within  reach  of  my  Serpent's  sting  : 
But  where  Eric  the  Norseman  leads 

Heroic  deeds 
Will  be  done  to-day  !  " 

Then  as  together  the  vessels  crashed, 
Eric  severed  the  cables  of  hide, 
With  which  King  Olaf's  ships  were  lashed, 
And  left  them  to  drive  and  drift 

With  the  currents  swift 
Of  the  outward  tide. 

Louder  the  war-horns  growl  and  snarl, 
Sharper  the  dragons  bite  and  sting  ! 
Eric  the  son  of  Hakon  Jarl 
A  death-drink  salt  as  the  sea 

Pledges  to  thee, 
Olaf  the  King  ! 


TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 


XX. 

EINAR    TAMBERSKELVER. 

IT  was  Einar  Tamberskelver 
Stood  beside  the  mast; 
From  his  yew-bow,  tipped  with  silver, 

Flew  the  arrows  fast ; 
Aimed  at  Eric  unavailing, 

As  he  sat  concealed, 
Half  behind  the  quarter-railing, 
Half  behind  his  shield. 

First  an  arrow  struck  the  tiller, 

Just  above  his  head  ; 
"Sing,  O  Eyvind  Skaldaspiller," 

Then  Earl  Eric  said. 
"  Sing  the  song  of  Hakon  dying, 

Sing  his  funeral  wail !  " 
And  another  arrow  flying 

Grazed  his  coat  of  mail. 

Turning  to  a  Lapland  yeoman, 

As  the  arrow  passed, 
Said  Earl  Eric,   "  Shoot  that  bowman 

Standing  by  the  mast." 
Sooner  than  the  word  was  spoken 

Flew  the  yeoman's  shaft ; 


THE    SAGA    OF    KING    OLAF. 

Einar's  bow  in  twain  was  broken, 
Einar  only  laughed. 

"What  was  that?"  said  Olaf,  standing 

On  the  quarter-deck. 
"Something  heard  I  like  the  stranding 

Of  a  shattered  wreck." 
Einar  then,  the  arrow  taking 

From  the  loosened  string, 
Answered,  "That  was  Norway  breaking 

From  thy  hand,  O  king ! " 

"Thou  art  but  a  poor  diviner," 

Straightway  Olaf  said ; 
"Take  my  bow,  and  swifter,  Einar, 

Let  thy  shafts  be  sped." 
Of  his  bows  the  fairest  choosing, 

Reached  he  from  above ; 
Einar  saw  the  blood-drops  oozing 

Through  his  iron  glove. 

But  the  bow  was  thin  and  narrow; 

At  the  first  assay, 
O'er  its  head  he  drew  the  arrow, 

Flung  the  bow  away ; 
Said,  with  hot  and  angry  temper 

Flushing  in  his  cheek, 
"  Olaf !  for  so  great  a  Kamper 

Are  thy  bows  too  weak  !  " 

*5  "3 


TALES   OF   A   WAYSIDE   INN. 

Then,  with  smile  of  joy  defiant 

On  his  beardless  lip. 
Scaled  he,  light  and  self-reliant, 

Eric's  dragon-ship. 
Loose  his  golden  locks  were  flowing, 

Bright  his  armor  gleamed; 
Like  Saint  Michael  overthrowing 

Lucifer  he  seemed. 


114 


THE   SAGA   OF   KING   OLAF. 

XXI. 
KING  OLAF'S  DEATH-DRINK. 

ALL  day  has  the  battle  raged, 
All  day  have  the  ships  engaged, 
But  not  yet  is  assuaged 

The  vengeance  of  Eric  the  Earl. 

The  decks  with  blood  are  red, 
The  arrows  of  death  are  sped, 
The  ships  are  filled  with  the  dead, 
And  the  spears  the  champions  hurl. 

They  drift  as  wrecks  on  the  tide, 
The  grappling-irons  are  plied, 
The  boarders  climb  up  the  side, 
The  shouts  are  feeble  and  few. 

Ah !  never  shall  Norway  again 
See  her  sailors  come  back  o'er  the  main; 
They  all  lie  wounded  or  slain, 
Or  asleep  in  the  billows  blue ! 

On  the  deck  stands  Olaf  the  King, 
Around  him  whistle  and  sing 
The  spears  that  the  foemen  fling, 

And  the  stones  they  hurl  with  their  hands. 

"S 


TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

In  the  midst  of  the  stones  and  the  spears, 
Kolbiorn,  the  marshal,  appears, 
His  shield  in  the  air  he  uprears, 

By  the  side  of  King  Olaf  he  stands. 

Over  the  slippery  wreck 
Of  the  Long  Serpent's  deck 
Sweeps  Eric  with  hardly  a  check, 
His  lips  with  anger  are  pale ; 

He  hews  with  his  axe  at  the  mast, 
Till  it  falls,  with  the  sails  overcast, 
Like  a  snow-covered  pine  in  the  vast 
Dim  forests  of  Orkadale. 

Seeking  King  Olaf  then, 
He  rushes  aft  with  his  men, 
As  a  hunter  into  the  den 

Of  the  bear,  when  he  stands  at  bay. 

"  Remember  Jarl  Hakon  ! "  he  cries  ; 
When  lo !  on  his  wondering  eyes, 
Two  kingly  figures  arise, 

Two  Olafs  in  warlike  array ! 

Then  Kolbiorn  speaks  in -the  ear 
Of  King  Olaf  a  word  of  cheer, 
In  a  whisper  that  none  may  hear, 
With  a  smile  on  his  tremulous  lip ; 

116 


THE    SAGA    OF    KING    OLAF. 

Two  shields  raised  high  in  the  air, 
Two  flashes  of  golden  hair, 
Two  scarlet  meteors'  glare, 

And  both  have  leaped  from  the  ship. 

Earl  Eric's  men  in  the  boats 
Seize  Kolbiorn's  shield  as  it  floats, 
And  cry,  from  their  hairy  throats, 
"  See  !  it  is  Olaf  the  King  !  " 

While  far  on  the  opposite  side 
Floats  another  shield  on  the  tide, 
Like  a  jewel  set  in  the  wide 
Sea-current's  eddying  ring. 

There  is  told  a  wonderful  tale, 
How  the  King  stripped  off  his  mail, 
Like  leaves  of  the  brown  sea-kale, 
As  he  swam  beneath  the  main  ; 

But  the  young  grew  old  and  gray, 
And  never,  by  night  or  by  day, 
In  his  kingdom  of  Norroway 
Was  King  Olaf  seen  again ! 


TALES    OF   A    WAYSIDE    INN. 


XXII. 
THE  NUN   OF  NIDAROS. 

IN  the  convent  of  Drontheim, 
Alone  in  her  chamber 
Knelt  Astrid  the  Abbess, 
At  midnight,  adoring, 
Beseeching,  entreating 
The  Virgin  and  Mother. 

She  heard  in  the  silence 
The  voice  of  one  speaking 
Without  in  the  darkness, 
In  gusts  of  the  night-wind 
Now  louder,  now  nearer, 
Now  lost  in  the  distance. 

The  voice  of  a  stranger 

It  seemed  as  she  listened, 

Of  some  one  who  answered, 

Beseeching,  imploring, 

A  cry  from  afar  off 

She  could  not  distinguish. 

The  voice  of  Saint  John, 
The  beloved  disciple, 
Who  wandered  and  waited 

118 


THE    SAGA   OF    KING   OLAF. 


The  Master's  appearance, 
Alone  in  the  darkness, 
Unsheltered  and  friendless. 


"  It  is  accepted, 
The  angry  defiance, 
The  challenge  of  battle  ! 


TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

It  is  accepted, 

But  not  with  the  weapons 

Of  war  that  thou  wieldest ! 

"  Cross  against  corslet, 

Love  against  hatred, 

Peace-cry  for  war-cry! 

Patience  is  powerful ; 

He  that  o'ercometh 

Hath  power  o'er  the  nations  ! 

"As  torrents  in  summer, 
Half  dried  in  their  channels, 
Suddenly  rise,  though  the 
Sky  is  still  cloudless, 
For  rain  has  been  falling 
Far  off  at  their  fountains ; 

"  So  hearts  that  are  fainting 
Grow  full  to  o'erfl owing;  - 
And  they  that  behold  it 
Marvel,  and  know  not 
That  God  at  their  fountains 
Far  off  has  been  raining ! 

"Stronger  than  steel 

Is  the  sword  of  the  Spirit ; 

Swifter  than  arrows 

The  light  of  the  truth  is, 

Greater  than  anger 

Is  love,  and  subdueth  ! 


THE    SAGA    OF    KING    OLAF. 

"Thou  art  a  phantom, 

A  shape  of  the  sea-mist, 

A  shape  of  the  brumal 

Rain,  and  the  darkness 

Fearful  and  formless ; 

Day  dawns  and  thou  art  not! 

"The  dawn  is  not  distant, 
Nor  is  the  night  starless; 
Love  is  eternal ! 
God  is  still  God,  and 
His  faith  shall  not  fail  us; 
Christ  is  eternal ! " 


INTERLUDE. 

A  STRAIN  of  music  closed  the  tale, 
A  low,  monotonous,  funeral  wail, 
That  with  its  cadence,  wild  and  sweet, 
Made  the  long  Saga  more  complete. 

"Thank  God,"  the  Theologian  said, 
"The  reign  of  violence  is  dead, 
Or  dying  surely  from  the  world ; 
While  Love  triumphant  reigns  instead, 
And  in  a  brighter  sky  o'erhead 
His  blessed  banners  are  unfurled. 
And  most  of  all  thank  God  for  this  : 
The  war  and  waste  of  clashing  creeds 
Now  end  in  words,  and  not  in  deeds, 
And  no  one  suffers  loss,  or  bleeds, 
For  thoughts  that  men  call  heresies. 

"I  stand  without  here  in  the  porch, 

I  hear  the  bell's  melodious  din, 

I  hear  the  organ  peal  within, 

I  hear  the  prayer,  with  words  that  scorch 

Like  sparks  from  an  inverted  torch, 


INTERLUDE. 

I  hear  the  sermon  upon  sin, 

With  threatenings  of  the  last  account. 

And  all,  translated  in  the  air, 

Reach  me  but  as  our  dear  Lord's  Prayer, 

And  as  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount. 

"  Must  it  be  Calvin,  and  not  Christ  ? 
Must  it  be  Athanasian  creeds, 
Or  holy  water,  books,  and  beads? 
Must  struggling  souls  remain  content 
With  councils  and  decrees  of  Trent? 
And  can  it  be  enough  for  these 
The  Christian  Church  the  year  embalms 
With  evergreens  and  boughs  of  palms, 
And  fills  the  air  with  litanies  ? 

"  I  know  that  yonder  Pharisee 
Thanks  God  that  he  is  not  like  me  ; 
In  my  humiliation  dressed, 
I  only  stand  and  beat  my  breast, 
And  pray  for  human  charity. 

"Not  to  one  church  alone,  but  seven, 
The  voice  prophetic  spake  from  heaven  ; 
And  unto  each  the  promise  came, 
Diversified,  but  still  the  same ; 
For  him  that  overcometh  are 
The  new  name  written  on  the  stone, 
The  raiment  white,  the  crown,  the  throne, 
And  I  will  give  him  the  Morning  Star  ! 
123 


TALES    OF    A   WAYSIDE    INN. 

"  Ah !  to  how  many  Faith  has  been 
No  evidence  of  things  unseen, 
But  a  dim  shadow,  that  recasts 
The  creed  of  the  Phantasiasts, 
For  whom  no  Man  of  Sorrows  died, 
For  whom  the  Tragedy  Divine 
Was  but  a  symbol  and  a  sign, 
And  Christ  a  phantom  crucified  ! 

"For  others  a  diviner  creed 
Is  living  in  the  life  they  lead. 
The  passing  of  their  beautiful  feet 
Blesses  the  pavement  of  the  street, 
And  all  their  looks  and  words  repeat 
Old  Fuller's  saying,  wise  and  sweet, 
Not  as  a  vulture,  but  a  dove, 
The  Holy  Ghost  came  from  above. 

"And  this  brings  back  to  me  a  tale 
So  s*ad  the  hearer  well  may  quail, 
And  question  if  such  things  can  be  ; 
Yet  in  the  chronicles  of  Spain 
Down  the  dark  pages  runs  this  stain, 
And  naught  can  wash  them  white  again, 
So  fearful  is  the  tragedy." 


124 


THE    THEOLOGIAN'S    TALE. 

TORQUEMADA. 

IN  the  heroic  days  when  Ferdinand 
And  Isabella  ruled  the  Spanish  land, 
And  Torquemada,  with  his  subtle  brain, 
Ruled  them,  as  Grand  Inquisitor  of  Spain, 
In  a  great  castle  near  Valladolid, 
Moated  and  high  and  by  fair  woodlands  hid, 
There  dwelt,  as  from  the  chronicles  we  learn, 
An  old  Hidalgo  proud  and  taciturn, 
Whose  name  has  perished,  with  his  towers  of  stone, 
And  all  his  actions  save  this  one  alone; 
This  one,  so  terrible,  perhaps  't  were  best 
If  it,  too,  were  forgotten  with  the  rest ; 
Unless,  perchance,  our  eyes  can  see  therein 
The  martyrdom  triumphant  o'er  the  sin  ; 
A  double  picture,  with  its  gloom  and  glow, 
The  splendor  overhead,  the  death  below. 

This  sombre  man  counted  each  day  as  lost 
On  which  his  feet  no  sacred  threshold  crossed ; 
And  when  he  chanced  the  passing  Host  to  meet, 
He  knelt  and  prayed  devoutly  in  the  street ; 
125 


TALES    OF   A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

Oft  he  confessed  ;  and  with  each  mutinous  thought, 

As  with  wild  beasts  at  Ephesus,  he  fought 

In  deep  contrition  scourged  himself  in  Lent, ' 

Walked  in  processions,  with  his  head  down  bent, 

At  plays  of  Corpus  Christi  oft  was  seen, 

And  on  Palm  Sunday  bore  his  bough  of  green. 

His  sole  diversion  was  to  hunt  the  boar 

Through  tangled  thickets  of  the  forest  hoar, 

Or  with  his  jingling  mules  to  hurry  down 

To  some  grand  bull-fight  in  the  neighboring  town, 

Or  in  the  crowd  with  lighted  taper  stand, 

When  Jews  were  burned,  or  banished  from  the  land. 

Then  stirred  within  him  a  tumultuous  joy  ; 

The  demon  whose  delight  is  to  destroy 

Shook  him,  and  shouted  with  a  trumpet  tone, 

"Kill!  kill!  and  let  the  Lord  find  out  his  own!" 

And  now,  in  that  old  castle  in  the  wood, 
His  daughters,  in  the  dawn  of  womanhood, 
Returning  from  their  convent  school,  had  made 
Resplendent  with  their  bloom  the  forest  shade, 
Reminding  him  of  their  dead  mother's  face, 
When  first  she  came  into  that  gloomy  place,  — 
A  memory  in  his  heart  as  dim  and  sweet 
As  moonlight  in  a  solitary  street, 
Where  the  same  rays,  that  lift  the  sea,  are  thrown 
Lovely  but  powerless  upon  walls  of  stone. 
These  two  fair  daughters  of  a  mother  dead 
Were  all  the  dream  had  left  him  as  it  fled. 
A  joy  at  first,  and  then  a  growing  care, 
126 


TORQUEMADA. 

As  if  a  voice  within  him  cried,  "  Beware  ! " 

A  vague  presentiment  of  impending  doom, 

Like  ghostly  footsteps  in  a  vacant  room, 

Haunted  him  day  and  night ;  a  formless  fear 

That  death  to  some  one  of  his  house  was  near, 

With  dark  surmises  of  a  hidden  crime, 

Made  life  itself  a  death  before  its  time. 

Jealous,  suspicious,  with  no  sense  of  shame, 

A  spy  upon  his  daughters  he  became ; 

With  velvet  slippers,  noiseless  on  the  floors, 

He  glided  softly  through  half-open  doors; 

Now  in  the  room,  and  now  upon  the  stair, 

He  stood  beside  them  ere  they  were  aware  ; 

He  listened  in  the  passage  when  they  talked, 

He  watched  them  from  _  the  casement  when  they  walked, 

He  saw  the  gypsy  haunt  the  river's  side, 

He  saw  the  monk  among  the  cork-trees  glide  ; 

And,  tortured  by  the  mystery  and  the  doubt 

Of  some  dark  secret,  past  his  finding  out, 

Baffled  he  paused ;  then  reassured  again 

Pursued  the  flying  phantom  of  his  brain. 

He  watched  them  even  when  they  knelt  in  church  j 

And  then,  descending  lower  in  his  search, 

Questioned  the  servants,  and  with  eager  eyes 

Listened  incredulous  to  their  replies  \ 

The  gypsy  ?  none  had  seen  her  in  the  wood ! 

The  monk  ?  a  mendicant  in  search  of  food ! 

At  length  the  awful  revelation  came, 
Crushing  at  once  his  pride  of  birth  and  name, 
127 


TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

The  hopes  his  yearning  bosom  forward  cast, 
And  the  ancestral  glories  of  the  past ; 
All  fell  together,  crumbling  in  disgrace, 
A  turret  rent  from  battlement  to  base. 
His  daughters  talking  in  the  dead  of  night 
In  their  own  chamber,  and  without  a  light, 
Listening,  as  he  was  wont,  he  overheard, 
And  learned  the  dreadful  secret,  word  by  word ; 
And  hurrying  from  his  castle,  with  a  cry 
He  raised  his  hands  to  the  unpitying  sky, 
Repeating  one  dread  word,  till  bush  and  tree 
Caught  it,  and  shuddering  answered,  "  Heresy ! " 

Wrapped  in  his  cloak,  his  hat  drawn  o'er  his  face, 
Now  hurrying  forward,  now  with  lingering  pace, 
He  walked  all  night  the  alleys  of  his  park, 
With  one  unseen  companion  in  the  dark, 
The  Demon  who  within  him  lay  in  wait, 
And  by  his  presence  turned  his  love  to  hate, 
Forever  muttering  in  an  undertone, 
"  Kill !  kill !  and  let  the  Lord  find  out  his  own !  " 

Upon  the  morrow,  after  early  Mass, 
While  yet  the  dew  was  glistening  on  the  grass, 
And  all  the  woods  were  musical  with  birds, 
The  old  Hidalgo,  uttering  fearful  words, 
Walked  homeward  with  the  Priest,  and  in  his  room 
Summoned  his  trembling  daughters  to  their  doom. 
When  questioned,  with  brief  answers  they  replied, 
Nor  when  accused  evaded  or  denied ; 
128 


TORQUEMADA. 

Expostulations,  passionate  appeals, 

All  that  the  human  heart  most  fears  or  feels, 

In  vain  the  Priest  with  earnest  voice  essayed, 

In  vain  the  father  threatened,  wept,  and  prayed 

Until  at  last  he  said,  with  haughty  mien, 

"  The  Holy  Office,  then,  must  intervene  ! " 

And  now  the  Grand  Inquisitor  of  Spain, 
With  all  the  fifty  horsemen  of  his  train, 
His  awful  name  resounding,  like  the  blast 
Of  funeral  trumpets,  as  he  onward  passed, 
Came  to  Valladolid,  and  there  began 
To  harry  the  rich  Jews  with  fire  and  ban. 
To  him  the  Hidalgo  went,  and  at  the  gate 
Demanded  audience  on  aifairs  of  state, 
And  in  a  secret  chamber  stood  before 
A  venerable  graybeard  of  fourscore, 
Dressed  in  the  hood  and  habit  of  a  friar ; 
Out  of  his  eyes  flashed  a  consuming  fire, 
And  in  his  hand  the  mystic  horn  he  held, 
Which  poison  and  all  noxious  charms  dispelled. 
He  heard  in  silence  the  Hidalgo's  tale, 
Then  answered  in  a  voice  that  made  him  quail  : 
"  Son  of  the  Church  !  when  Abraham  of  old 
To  sacrifice  his  only  son  was  told, 
He  did  not  pause  to  parley  nor  protest, 
But  hastened  to  obey  the  Lord's  behest. 
In  him  it  was  accounted  righteousness ; 
The  Holy  Church  expects  of  thee  no  less ! " 
17  129 


TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

A  sacred  frenzy  seized  the  father's  brain, 
And  Mercy  from  that  hour  implored  in  vain. 
Ah !  who  will  e'er  believe  the  words  I  say  ? 
His  daughters  he  accused,  and  the  same  day 
They  both  were  cast  into  the  dungeon's  gloom, 
That  dismal  antechamber  of  the  tomb, 
Arraigned,  condemned,  and  sentenced  to  the  flame, 
The  secret  torture  and  the  public  shame. 

Then  to  the  Grand  Inquisitor  once  more 

The  Hidalgo  went,  more  eager  than  before, 

And  said  :  "When  Abraham  offered  up  his  son, 

He  clave  the  wood  wherewith  it  might  be  done. 

By  his  example  taught,  let  me  too  bring 

Wood  from  the  forest  for  my  offering  ! " 

And  the  deep  voice,  without  a  pause,  replied  : 

"  Son  of  the  Church  !  by  faith  now  justified, 

Complete  thy  sacrifice,  even  as  thou  wilt ; 

The  Church  absolves  thy  conscience  from  all  guilt ! " 

Then  this  most  wretched  father  went  his  way 
Into  the  woods,  that  round  his  castle  lay, 
Where  once  his  daughters  in  their  childhood  played 
With  their  young  mother  in  the  sun  and  shade. 
Now  all  the  leaves  had  fallen ;  the  branches  bare 
Made  a  perpetual  moaning  in  the  air, 
And  screaming  from  their  eyries  overhead 
The  ravens  sailed  athwart  the  sky  of  lead. 
With  his  own  hands  he  lopped  the  boughs  and  bound 
Fagots,  that  crackled  with  foreboding  sound, 
130 


TORQUEMADA. 

And  on  his  mules,  caparisoned  and  gay 

With  bells  and  tassels,  sent  them  on  their  way. 

Then  with  his  mind  on  one  dark  purpose  bent, 

Again  to  the  Inquisitor  he  went, 

And  said  :  "  Behold,  the  fagots  I  have  brought, 

And  now,  lest  my  atonement  be  as  naught, 

Grant  me  one  more  request,  one  last  desire,  — 

With  my  own  hand  to  light  the  funeral  fire ! " 

And  Torquemada  answered  from  his  seat, 

"  Son  of  the  Church  !     Thine  offering  is  complete  ; 

Her  servants  through  all  ages  shall  not  cease 

To  magnify  thy  deed.     Depart  in  peace  !  " 

Upon  the  market-place,  builded  of  stone 

The  scaffold  rose,  whereon  Death  claimed  his  own. 

At  the  four  corners,  in  stern  attitude, 

Four  statues  of  the  Hebrew  Prophets  stood, 

Gazing  with  calm  indifference  in  their  eyes 

Upon  this  place  of  human  sacrifice, 

Round  which  was  gathering  fast  the  eager  crowd, 

With  clamor  of  voices  dissonant  and  loud, 

And  every  roof  and  window  was  alive 

With  restless  gazers,  swarming  like  a  hive. 

The  church-bells  tolled,  the  chant  of  monks  drew  near, 
Loud  trumpets  stammered  forth  their  notes  of  fear, 
A  line  of  torches  smoked  along  the  street, 
There  was  a  stir,  a  rush,  a  tramp  of  feet, 
And,  with  its  banners  floating  in  the  air, 


TALES    OF   A   WAYSIDE    INN. 

Slowly  the  long  procession  crossed  the  square, 
And,  to  the  statues  of  the  Prophets  bound, 
The  victims  stood,  with  fagots  piled  around. 
Then  all  the  air  a  blast  of  trumpets  shook, 
And  louder  sang  the  monks  with  bell  and  book, 
And  the  Hidalgo,  lofty,  stern,  and  proud, 
Lifted  his  torch,  and,  bursting  through  the  crowd, 
Lighted  in  haste  the  fagots,  and  then  fled, 
Lest  those  imploring  eyes  should  strike  him  dead! 

O  pitiless  skies  !  why  did  your  clouds  retain 
For  peasants'  fields  their  floods  of  hoarded  rain? 
O  pitiless  earth  !  why  opened  no  abyss 
To  bury  in  its  chasm  a  crime  like  this  ? 

That  night,  a  mingled  column  of  fire  and  smoke 
From  the  dark  thickets  of  the  forest  broke, 
And,  glaring  o'er  the  landscape  leagues  away, 
Made  all  the  fields  and  hamlets  bright  as  day. 
Wrapped  in  a  sheet  of  flame  the  castle  blazed, 
And  as  the  villagers  in  terror  gazed, 
They  saw  the  figure  of  that  cruel  knight 
Lean  from  a  window  in  the  turret's  height, 
His  ghastly  face  illumined  with  the  glare, 
His  hands  upraised  above  his  head  in  prayer, 
Till  the  floor  sank  beneath  him,  and  he  fell 
Down  the  black  hollow  of  that  burning  well. 

Three  centuries  and  more  above  his  bones 
Have  piled  the  oblivious  years  like  funeral  stones ; 
132 


TORQUEMADA. 

His  name  has  perished  with  him,  and  no  trace 
Remains  on  earth  of  his  afflicted  race ; 
But  Torquemada's  name,  with  clouds  o'ercast, 
Looms  in  the  distant  landscape  of  the  Past, 
Like  a  burnt  tower  upon  a  blackened  heath, 
Lit  by  the  fires  of  burning  woods  beneath ! 


133 


INTERLUDE. 

closed  the  tale  of  guilt  and  gloom, 
-L     That  cast  upon  each  listener's  face 
Its  shadow,  and  for  some  brief  space 
Unbroken  silence  filled  the  room. 
The  Jew  was  thoughtful  and  distressed ; 
Upon  his  memory  thronged  and  pressed 
The  persecution  of  his  race, 
Their  wrongs  and  sufferings  and  disgrace ; 
His  head  was  sunk  upon  his  breast, 
And  from  his  eyes  alternate  came 
Flashes  of  wrath  and  tears  of  shame. 

The  student  first  the  silence  broke, 
As  one  who  long  has  lain  in  wait, 
With  purpose  to  retaliate, 
And  thus  he  dealt  the  avenging  stroke. 

"  In  such  a  company  as  this, 
A  tale  so  tragic  seems  amiss, 
That  by  its  terrible'  control 
O'ermasters  and  drags  down  the  soul 
Into  a  fathomless  abyss. 
134 


INTERLUDE. 

The  Italian  Tales  that  you  disdain, 
Some  merry  Night  of  Straparole, 
Or  Machiavelli's  Belphagor, 
Would  cheer  us  and  delight  us  more, 
Give  greater  pleasure  and  less  pain 
Than  your  grim  tragedies  of  Spain  !  " 

And  here  the  Poet  raised  his  hand, 
With  such  entreaty  and  command, 
It  stopped  discussion  at  its  birth, 
And  said  :  "  The  story  I  shall  tell 
Has  meaning  in  it,  if  not  mirth ; 
Listen,  and  hear  what  once  befell 
The  merry  birds  of  Killingworth  !  " 


135 


THE    POET'S    TALE. 

THE   BIRDS   OF   KILLINGWORTH. 

IT  was  the  season,  when  through  all  the  land 
The  merle  and  mavis  build,  and  building  sing 
Those  lovely  lyrics,  written  by  His  hand, 

Whom  Saxon  Caedmon  calls  the  Blithe-heart  King; 
When  on  the  boughs  the  purple  buds  expand, 
The  banners  of  the  vanguard  of  the  Spring, 
And  rivulets,  rejoicing,  rush  and  leap, 
And  wave  their  fluttering  signals  from  the  steep. 

The  robin  and  the  blue-bird,  piping  loud, 

Filled  all  the  blossoming  orchards  with  their  glee; 

The  sparrows  chirped  as  if  they  still  were  proud 
Their  race  in  Holy  Writ  should  mentioned  be ; 

And  hungry  crows  assembled  in  a  crowd, 
Clamored  their  piteous  prayer  incessantly, 

Knowing  who  hears  the  ravens  cry,  and  said  : 

"  Give  us,  O  Lord,  this  day  our  daily  bread  ! " 

Across  the  Sound  the  birds  of  passage  sailed, 

Speaking  some  unknown  language  strange  and  sweet 

Of  tropic  isle  remote,  and  passing  hailed 

The  village  with  the  cheers  of  all  their  fleet ; 
136 


THE    BIRDS    OF    KILLINGWORTH. 

Or  quarrelling  together,  laughed  and  railed 
Like  foreign  sailors,  landed  in  the  street 
Of  seaport  town,  and  with  outlandish  noise 
Of  oaths  and  gibberish  frightening  girls  and  boys. 

Thus  came  the  jocund  Spring  in  Killingworth, 
In  fabulous  days,  some  hundred  years  ago  ; 

And  thrifty  farmers,  as  they  tilled  the  earth, 
Heard  with  alarm  the  cawing  of  the  crow, 

That  mingled  with  the  universal  mirth, 
Cassandra-like,  prognosticating  woe  ; 

They  shook  their  heads,  and  doomed  with  dreadful  words 

To  swift  destruction  the  whole  race  of  birds. 

And  a  town-meeting  was  convened  straightway 

To  set  a  price  upon  the  guilty  heads 
Of  these  marauders,  who,  in  lieu  of  pay, 

Levied  black-mail  upon  the  garden  beds 
And  corn-fields,  and  beheld  without  dismay 

The  awful  scarecrow,  with  his  fluttering  shreds  ; 
The  skeleton  that  waited  at  their  feast, 
Whereby  their  sinful  pleasure  was  increased. 

Then  from  his  house,  a  temple  painted  white, 

With  fluted  columns,  and  a  roof  of  red, 
The  Squire  came  forth,  august  and  splendid  sight ! 

Slowly  descending,  with  majestic  tread, 
Three  flights  of  steps,  nor  looking  left  nor  right, 

Down  the  long  street  he  walked,  as  one  who  said, 
"  A  town  that  boasts  inhabitants  like  me 
Can  have  no  lack  of  good  society  ! " 

18  137 


TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

The  Parson,  too,  appeared,  a  man  austere, 
The  instinct  of  whose  nature  was  to  kill ; 

The  wrath  of  God  he  preached  from  year  to  year, 
And  read,  with  fervor,  Edwards  on  the  Will ; 

His  favorite  pastime  was  to  slay  the  deer 
In  Summer  on  some  Adirondac  hill ; 

E'en  now,  while  walking  down  the  rural  lane, 

He  lopped  the  wayside  lilies  with  his  cane. 

From  the  Academy,  whose  belfry  crowned 
The  hill  of  Science  with  its  vane  of  brass, 

Came  the  Preceptor,  gazing  idly  round, 

Now  at  the  clouds,  and  now  at  the  green  grass, 

And  all  absorbed  in  reveries  profound 
Of  fair  Almira  in  the  upper  class, 

Who  was,  as  in  a  sonnet  he  had  said, 

As  pure  as  water,  and  as  good  as  bread. 

And  next  the  Deacon  issued  from  his  door, 
In  his  voluminous  neckcloth,  white  as  snow; 

A  suit  of  sable  bombazine  he  wore ; 

His  form  was  ponderous,  and  his  step  was  slow; 

There  never  was  so  wise  a  man  before ; 

He  seemed  the  incarnate  "  Well,  I  told  you  so  ! " 

And  to  perpetuate  his  great  renown 

There  was  a  street  named  after  him  in  town. 

These  came  together  in  the  new  town-hall, 
With  sundry  farmers  from  the  region  round. 

The  Squire  presided,  dignified  and  tall, 

His  air  impressive  and  his  reasoning  sound ; 
138 


THE    BIRDS    OF    KILLINGWORTH. 

Ill  fared  it  with  the  birds,  both  great  and  small ; 

Hardly  a  friend  in  all  that  crowd  they  found, 
But  enemies  enough,  who  every  one 
Charged  them  with  all  the  crimes  beneath  the  sun. 

When  they  had  ended,  from  his  place  apart, 
Rose  the  Preceptor,  to  redress  the  wrong, 

And,  trembling  like  a  steed  before  the  start, 

Looked  round  bewildered  on  the  expectant  throng; 

Then  thought  of  fair  Almira,  and  took  heart 

To  speak  out  what  was  in  him,  clear  and  strong, 

Alike  regardless  of  their  smile  or  frown, 

And  quite  determined  not  to  be  laughed  down. 

"  Plato,  anticipating  the  Reviewers, 

From  his  Republic  banished  without  pity 

The  Poets ;  in  this  little  town  of  yours, 

You  put  to  death,  by  means  of  a  Committee, 

The  ballad-singers  and  the  Troubadours, 
The  street-musicians  of  the  heavenly  city, 

The  birds,  who  make  sweet  music  for  us  all 

In  our  dark  hours,  as  David  did  for  Saul. 

"The  thrush  that  carols  at  the  dawn  of  day 
From  the  green  steeples  of  the  piny  wood  ; 

The  oriole  in  the  elm  ;  the  noisy  jay, 
Jargoning  like  a  foreigner  at  his  food  ; 

The  blue-bird  balanced  on  some  topmost  spray, 
Flooding  with  melody  the  neighborhood  ; 

Linnet  and  meadow-lark,  and  all  the  throng 

That  dwell  in  nests,  and  have  the  gift  of  song. 
139 


TALES    OF   A   WAYSIDE    INN. 

"  You  slay  them  all !  and  wherefore  ?  for  the  gain 
Of  a  scant  handful  more  or  less  of  wheat, 

Or  rye,  or  barley,  or  some  other  grain, 

Scratched  up  at  random  by  industrious  feet, 

Searching  for  worm  or  weevil  after  rain  ! 
Or  a  few  'cherries,  that  are  not  so  sweet 

As  are  the  songs  these  uninvited  guests 

Sing  at  their  feast  with  comfortable  breasts. 

"Do  you  ne'er  think  what  wondrous  beings  these? 

Do  you  ne'er  think  who  made  them,  and  who  taught 
The  dialect  they  speak,  where  melodies 

Alone  are  the  interpreters  of  thought  ? 
Whose  household  words  are  songs  in  many  keys, 

Sweeter  than  instrument  of  man  e'er  caught ! 
Whose  habitations  in  the  tree-tops  even 
Are  half-way  houses  on  the  road  to  heaven  ! 

"  Think,  every  morning  when  the  sun  peeps  through 
The  dim,  leaf-latticed  windows  of  the  grove, 

How  jubilant  the  happy  birds  renew 
Their  old,  melodious  madrigals  of  love  ! 

And  when  you  think  of  this,  remember  too 
'T  is  always  morning  somewhere,  and  above 

The  awakening  continents,  from  shore  to  shore, 

Somewhere  the  birds  are  singing  evermore. 

"  Think  of  your  woods  and  orchards  without  birds ! 
Of  empty  nests  that  cling  to  boughs  and  beams 
As  in  an  idiot's  brain  remembered  words 

Hang  empty  'mid  the  cobwebs  of  his  dreams  ! 
140 


THE    BIRDS    OF    KILLINGWORTH. 

Will  bleat  of  flocks  or  bellowing  of  herds 

Make  up  for  the  lost  music,  when  your  teams 
Drag  home  the  stingy  harvest,  and  no  more 
The  feathered  gleaners  follow  to  your  door  ? 

"  What !  would  you  rather  see  the  incessant  stir 
Of  insects  in  the  windrows  of  the  hay, 

And  hear  the  locust  and  the  grasshopper 
Their  melancholy  hurdy-gurdies  play? 

Is  this  more  pleasant  to  you  than  the  whirr 
Of  meadow-lark,  and  its  sweet  roundelay, 

Or  twitter  of  little  field-fares,  as  you  take 

Your  nooning  in  the  shade*  of  bush  and  brake  ? 

"You  call  them  thieves  and  pillagers;  but  know 
They  are  the  winged  wardens  of  your  farms, 

Who  from  the  cornfields  drive  the  insidious  foe, 
And  from  your  harvests  keep  a  hundred  harms ; 

Even  the  blackest  of  them  all,  the  crow, 
Renders  good  service  as  your  man-at-arms, 

Crushing  the  beetle  in  his  coat  of  mail, 

And  crying  havoc  on  the  slug  and  snail. 

"  How  can  I  teach  your  children  gentleness, 
And  mercy  to  the  weak,  and  reverence 

For  Life,  which,  in  its  weakness  or  excess, 
Is  still  a  gleam  of  God's  omnipotence, 

Or  Death,  which,  seeming  darkness,  is  no  less 
The  selfsame  light,  although  averted  hence, 

'When  by  your  laws,  your  actions,  and  your  speech, 

You  contradict  the  very  things  I  teach  ? " 
141 


TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

With  this  he  closed ;  and  through  the  audience  went 
A  murmur,  like  the  rustle  of  dead  leaves ; 

The  farmers  laughed  and  nodded,  and  some  bent 
Their  yellow  heads  together  like  their  sheaves ; 

Men  have  no  faith  in  fine-spun  sentiment 

Who  put  tKeir  trust  in  bullocks  and  in  beeves. 

The  birds  were  doomed ;  and,  as  the  record  shows, 

A  bounty  offered  for  the  heads  of  crows. 

There  was  another  audience  out  of  reach, 
Who  had  no  voice  nor  vote  in  making  laws, 

But  in  the  papers  read  his  little  speech, 

And  crowned  his  modest  temples  with  applause ; 

They  made  him  conscious,  each  one  more  than  each, 
He  still  was  victor,  vanquished  in  their  cause. 

Sweetest  of  all  the  applause  he  won  from  thee, 

O  fair  Almira  at  the  Academy! 

And  so  the  dreadful  massacre  began ; 

O'er  fields  and  orchards,  and  o'er  woodland  crests, 
The  ceaseless  fusillade  of  terror  ran. 

Dead  fell  the  birds,  with  blood-stains  on  their  breasts, 
Or  wounded  crept  away  from  sight  of  man, 

While  the  young  died  of  famine  in  their  nests  ; 
A  slaughter  to  be  told  in  groans,  not  words, 
The  very  St.   Bartholomew  of  Birds  ! 

The  Summer  came,  and  all  the  birds  were  dead ; 

The  days  were  like  hot  coals  ;  the  very  ground 
Was  burned  to  ashes;  in  the  orchards  fed 

Myriads  of  caterpillars,  and  around 


THE    BIRDS    OF    KILLINGWORTH. 

The  cultivated  fields  and  garden  beds 

Hosts  of  devouring  insects  crawled,  and  found 
No  foe  to  check  their  march,  till  they  had  made 
The  land  a  desert  without  leaf  or  shade. 

Devoured  by  worms,  like  Herod,  was  the  town, 

Because,  like  Herod,  it  had  ruthlessly 
Slaughtered  the  Innocents.     From  the  trees  spun  down 

The  canker-worms  upon  the   passers-by, 
Upon  each  woman's  bonnet,  shawl,  and  gown, 

Who  shook  them  off  with  just  a  little  cry ; 
They  were  the  terror  of  each  favorite  walk, 
The  endless  theme  of  all  the  village  talk. 

The  farmers  grew  impatient,  but  a  few 

Confessed  their  error,  and  would  not  complain, 

For  after  all,  the  best  thing  one  can  do 
When  it  is  raining,  is  to  let  it  rain. 

Then  they  repealed  the  law,  although  they  knew 
It  would  not  call  the  dead  to  life  again ; 

As  school-boys,  finding  their  mistake  too  late, 

Draw  a  wet  sponge  across  the  accusing  slate. 

That  year  in  Killingworth  the  Autumn  came 

Without  the  light  of  his  majestic  look, 
The  wonder  of  the  falling  tongues  of  flame, 

The  illumined  pages  of  his  Doom's-Day  book. 
A  few  lost  leaves  blushed  crimson  with  their  shame, 

And  drowned  themselves  despairing  in  the  brook, 
While  the  wild  wind  went  moaning  everywhere, 
Lamenting  the  dead  children  of  the  air ! 


TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

But  the  next  Spring  a  stranger  sight  was  seen, 
A  sight  that  never  yet  by  bard  was  sung, 

As  great  a  wonder  as  it  would  have  been 
If  some  dumb  animal  had  found  a  tongue  ! 

A  wagon,  overarched  with  evergreen, 

Upon  whose  boughs  were  wicker  cages  hung, 

All  full  of  singing  birds,  came  down  the  street, 

Filling  the  air  with  music  wild  and  sweet. 

From  all  the  country  round  these  birds  were  brought, 
By  order  of  the  town,  with  anxious  quest, 

And,  loosened  from  their  wicker  prisons,  sought 
In  woods  and  fields  the  places  they  loved  best, 

Singing  loud  canticles,  which  many  thought 
Were  satires  to  the  authorities  addressed, 

While  others,  listening  in  green  lanes,  averred 

Such  lovely  music  never  had  been  heard ! 

But  blither  still  and  louder  carolled  they 
Upon  the  morrow,  for  they  seemed  to  know 

It  was  the  fair  Almira's  wedding-day, 
And  everywhere,  around,  above,  below, 

When  the  Preceptor  bore  his  bride  away, 
Their  songs  burst  forth  in  joyous  overflow, 

And  a  new  heaven  bent  over  a  new  earth 

Amid  the  sunny  farms  of  Killingworth. 


144 


FINALE. 

THE  hour  was  late  ;  the  fire  burned  low, 
The  Landlord's  eyes  were  closed  in  sleep, 
And  near  the  story's  end  a  deep 
Sonorous  sound  at  times  was  heard, 
As  when  the  distant  bagpipes  blow. 
At  this  all  laughed ;  the  Landlord  stirred, 
As  one  awaking  from  a  swound, 
And,  gazing  anxiously  around, 
Protested  that  he  had  not  slept, 
But  only  shut  his  eyes,  and  kept 
His  ears  attentive  to  each  word. 

Then  all  arose,  and  said,  "  Good  night." 
Alone  remained  the  drowsy  Squire 
To  rake  the  embers  of  the  fire, 
And  quench  the  waning  parlor  light; 
While  from  the  windows,  here  and  there, 
The  scattered  lamps  a  moment  gleamed, 
And  the  illumined  hostel  seemed 
19  us 


TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

The  constellation  of  the  Bear, 
Downward,  athwart  the  misty  air, 
Sinking  and  setting  toward  the  sun. 
Far  off  the  village  clock  struck  one. 


146 


BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 


FLIGHT  THE  SECOND. 


THE   CHILDREN'S    HOUR. 

"BETWEEN  the  dark  and  the  daylight, 
-LJ     When  the  night  is  beginning  to  lower, 
Comes  a  pause  in  the  day's  occupations, 
That  is  known  as  the  Children's  Hour. 

I  hear  in  the  chamber  above  me 

The  patter  of  little  feet, 
The  sound  of  a  door  that  is  opened, 

And  voices  soft  and  sweet. 

From  my  study  I  see  in  the  lamplight, 
Descending  the  broad  hall  •  stair, 

Grave  Alice,  and  laughing  Allegra, 
And  Edith  with  golden  hair. 

A  whisper,  and  then  a  silence  : 
Yet  I  know  by  their  merry  eyes 

They  are  plotting  and  planning  together 
To  take  me  by  surprise. 

A  sudden  rush  from  the  stairway, 

A  sudden  raid  from  the  hall ! 
By  three  doors  left  unguarded 

They  enter  my  castle  wall  ! 
149 


BIRDS    OF    PASSAGE. 

They  climb  up  into  my  turret 

O'er  the  arms  and  back  of  my  chair 

If  I  try  to  escape,  they  surround  me ; 
They  seem  to  be  everywhere. 

They  almost  devour  me  with  kisses, 
Their  arms  about  me  entwine, 

Till  I  think  of  the  Bishop  of  Bingen 
In  his  Mouse -Tower  on  the  Rhine  ! 

Do  you  think,  O  blue-eyed  banditti, 
Because  you  have  scaled  the  wall, 

Such  an  old  moustache  as  I  am 
Is  not  a  match  for  you  all ! 

I  have  you  fast  in  my  fortress, 
And  will  not  let  you  depart, 

But  put  you  down  into  the  dungeon 
In  the  round-tower  of  my  heart. 

And  there  will  I  keep  you  forever, 

Yes,  forever  and  a  day, 
Till  the  walls  shall  crumble  to  ruin, 

And  moulder  in  dust  away  ! 


156 


ENCELADUS. 


ENCELADUS. 

T  TNDER  Mount  Etna  he  lies, 
^-r    It  is  slumber,  it  is  not  death  ; 
For  he  struggles  at  times  to  arise, 
And  above  him  the  lurid  skies 
Are  hot  with  his  fiery  breath. 

The  crags  are  piled  on  his  breast, 

The  earth  is  heaped  on  his  head  ; 
But  the  groans  of  his  wild  unrest, 
Though  smothered  and  half  suppressed, 
Are  heard,  and  he  is  not  dead. 

And  the  nations  far  away 

Are  watching  with  eager  eyes ; 

They  talk  together  and  say, 

"  To-morrow,  perhaps  to-day, 
Enceladus  will  arise  !  " 

And  the  old  gods,  the  austere 

Oppressors  in  their  strength, 
Stand  aghast  and  white  with  fear 
At  the  ominous  sounds  they  hear, 

And  tremble,  and  mutter,  "  At  length  !  " 


BIRDS    OF    PASSAGE.     - 

Ah  me !  for  the  land  that  is  sown 

With  the  harvest  of  despair ! 
Where  the  burning  cinders,  blown 
From  the  lips  of  the  overthrown 

Enceladus,  fill  the  air. 

Where  ashes  are  heaped  in  drifts 

Over  vineyard  and  field  and  town, 
Whenever  he  starts  and  lifts 
His  head  through  the  blackened  rifts 
Of  the  crags  that  keep  him  down. 

See,  see  !  the  red  light  shines ! 

'T  is  the  glare  of  his  awful  eyes  ! 
And  the  storm-wind  shouts  through  the  pines 
Of  Alps  and  of  Apennines, 

"  Enceladus,  arise  !  " 


THE    CUMBERLAND. 

AT  anchor  in  Hampton  Roads  we  lay, 
On  board  of  the  Cumberland,  sloop-of-war 
And  at  times  from  the  fortress  across  the  bay 

The  alarum  of  drums  swept  past, 

i 

Or  a  bugle  blast 
From  the  camp  on  the  shore. 
152 


THE    CUMBERLAND. 

Then  far  away  to  the  south  uprose 

A  little  feather  of  snow-white  smoke, 
And  we  knew  that  the  iron  ship  of  our  foes 
Was  steadily  steering  its  course 
To  try  the  force 
Of  our  ribs  of  oak. 

Down  upon  us  heavily  runs, 

Silent  and  sullen,  the  floating  fort ; 
Then  comes  a  puff  of  smoke  from  her  guns, 
And  leaps  the  terrible  death, 
With  fiery  breath, 
From  each  open  port. 

We  are  not  idle,  but  send  her  straight 

Defiance  back  in  a  full  broadside  ! 
As  hail  rebounds  from  a  roof  of  slate, 
Rebounds  our  heavier  hail 
From  each  iron  scale 
Of  the  monster's  hide. 

"Strike  your  flag!"  the  rebel  cries, 

In  his  arrogant  old  plantation  strain. 
"  Never  !  "  our  gallant  Morris  replies  ; 

"  It  is  better  to  sink  than  to  yield  ! " 
And  the  whole  air  pealed 
With  the  cheers  of  our  men. 

Then,  like  a  kraken  huge  and  black, 
She  crushed  our  ribs  in  her  iron  grasp  ! 

20  153 


BIRDS    OF    PASSAGE. 

Down  went  the  Cumberland  all  a  wrack, 
With  a  sudden  shudder  of  death, 
And  the  cannon's  breath 
For  her  dying  gasp. 

Next  morn;  as  the  sun  rose  over  the  bay, 

Still  floated  our  flag  at  the  mainmast-head. 
Lord,  how  beautiful  was  thy  day ! 
Every  waft  of  the  air 
Was  a  whisper  of  prayer, 
Or  a  dirge  for  the  dead. 

Ho !  brave  hearts  that  went  down  in  the  seas  ! 

Ye  are  at  peace  in  the  troubled  stream; 
Ho !  brave  land  !  with  hearts  like  these, 
Thy  flag,  that  is  rent  in  twain, 
Shall  be  one  again, 
And  without  a  seam  ! 


154 


SNOW-FLAKES. 

OUT  of  the  bosom  of  the  Air, 
Out  of  the  cloud-folds  of  her  garments  shaken, 
Over  the  woodlands  brown  and  bare, 
Over  the  harvest-fields  forsaken, 
Silent,  and  soft,  and  slow 
Descends  the  snow. 


Even  as  our  cloudy  fancies  take 

Suddenly  shape  in  some  divine  expression, 

155 


BIRDS    OF    PASSAGE. 

Even  as  the  troubled  heart  doth  make 
In  the  white  countenance  confession, 
The  troubled  sky  reveals 
The  grief  it  feels. 

This  is  the  poem  of  the  air. 

Slowly  in  silent  syllables  recorded  ; 
This  is  the  secret  of  despair, 

Long  in  its  cloudy  bosom  hoarded, 
Now  whispered  and  revealed 
To  wood  and  field. 


A   DAY   OF   SUNSHINE. 


OGIFT  of  God  !     O  perfect  day  ! 
Whereon  shall  no  man  work,  but  play; 
Whereon  it  is  enough  for  me, 
Not  to  be  doing,  but  to  be  ! 

Through  every  fibre  of  my  brain, 
Through  every  nerve,  through  every  vein, 
I  feel  the  electric  thrill,  the  touch 
Of  life,  that  seems  almost  too  much. 
156 


A    DAY    OF    SUNSHINE. 

I  hear  the  wind  among  the  trees 
Playing  celestial  symphonies ; 
I  see  the  branches  downward  bent, 
Like  keys  of  some  great  instrument. 

And  over  me  unrolls  on  high 
The  splendid  scenery  of  the  sky, 
Where  through  a  sapphire  sea  the  sun 
Sails  like  a  golden  galleon, 

Towards  yonder  cloud-land  in  the  West, 
Towards  yonder  Islands  of  the  Blest, 
Whose  steep  sierra  far  uplifts 
Its  craggy  summits  white  with  drifts. 

Blow,  winds  !  and  waft  through  all  the  rooms 
The  snow-flakes  of  the  cherry-blooms ! 
Blow,  winds  !  and  bend  within  my  reach 
The  fiery  blossoms  of  the  peach  ! 

O  Life  and  Love  !     O  happy  throng 
Of  thoughts,  whose  only  speech  is  song ! 
O  heart  of  man !  canst  thou  not  be 
Blithe  as  the  air  is,  and  as  free  ? 

1860. 


157 


BIRDS    OF    PASSAGE. 


SOMETHING   LEFT   UNDONE. 


LABOR  with  what  zeal  we  will, 
Something  still  remains  undone, 
Something  uncompleted  still 
Waits  the  rising  of  the  sun. 

By  the  bedside,  on  the  stair, 
At  the  threshold,  near  the  gates, 

With  its  menace  or  its  prayer, 
Like  a  mendicant  it  waits ; 

Waits,  and  will  not  go  away ; 

Waits,  and  will  not  be  gainsaid; 
By  the  cares  of  yesterday 

Each  to-day  is  heavier  made  ; 

Till  at  length  the  burden  seems 

Greater  than  our  strength  can  bear, 

Heavy  as  the  weight  of  dreams, 
Pressing  on  us  everywhere. 

And  we  stand  from  day  to  day, 
Like  the  dwarfs  of  times  gone  by, 

Who,  as  Northern  legends  say, 
On  their  shoulders  held  the  sky. 
158 


WEARINESS. 


WEARINESS. 

O   LITTLE  feet!  that  such  long  years 
Must  wander  on  through  hopes  and  fears, 
Must  ache  and  bleed  beneath  your  load  ; 
I,  nearer  to  the  wayside  inn 
Where  toil  shall  cease  and  rest  begin, 
Am  weary,  thinking  of  your  road ! 

O  little  hands  !  that,  weak  or  strong, 
Have  still  to  serve  or  rule  so  long, 

Have  still  so  long  to  give  or  ask  ; 
I,  who  so  much  with  book  and  pen 
Have  toiled  among  my  fellow-men, 

Am  weary,  thinking  of  your  task. 

O  little  hearts  !  that  throb  and  beat 
With  such  impatient,  feverish  heat, 

Such  limitless  and  strong  desires ; 
Mine  that  so  long  has  glowed  and  burned, 
With  passions  into  ashes  turned 

Now  covers  and  conceals  its  fires. 
159 


BIRDS    OF    PASSAGE. 

| 

O  little  souls !  as  pure  and  white 
And  crystalline  as  rays  of  light 

Direct  from  heaven,  their  source  divine ; 
Refracted  through  the  mist  of  years, 
How  red  my  setting  sun  appears, 

How  lurid  looks  this  soul  of  mine  ! 


THE    END. 


Cambridge  :   Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co. 


"The    Wayside    Inn." 

'  Austin,  111.,— To  the  Editor.— Can  you  tell  me 
whether  the  old  Red  Horse  Inn,  Sudbury,  Mass. 
(Wayside  Inn),  is  still  in  the  same  condition 
that  it  was  in  Longfellow's  time;  and  can  you 
tell  something  of  its  present  condition;  who 
owns  it,  whether  it  is  still  being  used  for  hotel 
purposes,  etc.?  NAHPETS. 

We  take  the  following  recent  sketch  of  the 
Wayside  Inn  from  Dr.  Wolf's  book,  "Literary 
Shrines;"  "Westward  from  Belmont,  a  prolonged 
drive  through  a  delightful  country  brings  us 
to  'Sudbury  Town'  and  the  former  hostelry 
of  Squire  Howe,  the  'Wayside  Inn'  of  Long 
fellow's  'Tales.'  Our  companion  and  guide 
is  one  who  well  knew  the  old  house  and  its 
neighborhood  in  the  halcyon  days  when  Pro 
fessor  Treadwell  Parsons,  the  poet  of  the  'Bust 
of  Dante,'  and  the  quiet  coterie  of  Longfel 
low's  friends  came,  summer  after  summer,  to 
find  rest  and  seclusion  under  its  ample  roof  and 
sheltering  trees,  among  the  hills  of  this  remote 
region.  The  environment  of  fragrant  meadow 
and  smiling  field,  of  deep  wood  glade  and  forest- 
clad  height,  is  indeed  alluring.  About  the 
ancient  inn  remain  some  of  the  elms  and  the 
'oak  trees,  broad  and  high,'  shading  it  now 
as  in  the  day  when  the  'Tales'  immortalized 
it  with  the  'Tabard'  of  Chaucer;  while  through 
the  near  meadow  circles  the  'well-remem 
bered  brook'  of  the  poet's  -verse,  in  which  his 
friends  saw  the  inverted  landscape  and  their 
own  faces  'looking  up  at  them  from  below.' 
The  house  is  a  great,  old-fashioned,  bare  and 
weather-worn  edifice  of  wood — 'somewhat  fallen 
to  decay' — standing  close  upon  the  highway, 
its  two  stories  of  spacious  rooms  are  supplement 
ed  by  small  chambers  in  a  vast  attic;  two  or 
three  chimneys,  'huge  and  tiled  and  tall,'  rise 
through  its  gambrel  roofs  among  the  bowering 
foliage;  a  wing  abuts  up  one  side  and  imparts 
a  pleasing  irregularity  to  the  otherwise  plain 
parellelogram.  The  wide,  low-studded  rooms 
are  lighted  by  windows  of  many  small  panes. 
Among  the  apartments  we  find  the  one  once 
occupied  by  Major  Molineaux,  'whom  Haw 
thorne  hath  immortal  made,'  and  that  of  Dr. 
Parsons,  the  laureate  of  this  place,  who  has 
celebrated  it  in  the  stanzas  of  'Old  House  at 
Sudbury'  and  other  poems.  But  it  is  the  old 
inn  parlor  which  most  interests  the  literary 
visitor— a  great,  low,  square  apartment,  with 
oaken  floors,  ponderous  beams  overhead,  and  a 
broad  hearth,  where  in  the  olden  time  blazed  a 
log  fire  whose  ruddy  glow  filled  the  room  and 
shone  out  through  the  windows.  It  is  this  room 
which  Longfellow  peoples  with  his  friends,  who 
sat  about  the  old  fireplace  and  told  his  'Tales 
of  a  Wayside  Inn.'  The  'rapt  musician'  whose 
transfiguring  portraiture  we  have  in  the  prelude 
is  Ole  Bull,  the  student  'of  old  books  and 
days'  is  Henry  Wales;  the  young  Sicilian,  'in 
sight  of  Etna  born  and  bred,'  is  Luigi  Monti, 
who  dined  every  Sunday  with  Longfellow;  the 
•Spanish  Jew  from  Alicanf  is  Bdrelei,  a  Bos 
ton  Oriental  dealer;  'the  theologian  from  the 
school  of  Cambridge  on  the  Charles'  is  Professor 
Daniel  Treadwell;  the  poet  is  T.  W.  Parsons, 
the  Dantean  student  and  translator  of  'Divina 
Commedia;'  the  landlord  is  Squire  Lyman  Howe, 
the  portly  bachelor  who  then  kept  this  'Red 
Horse  Tavern'  as  it  was  called.  Most  of  this 
goodly  circle  have  been  here  in  the  flesh,  and 
•our  companion  has  seen  them  in  this  old  room 
as  well  as  Longfellow  himself,  who  came  here 
years  afterward,  when  the  landlord  was  dead  and 
the  poet's  company  had  left  the  old  inn  forever." 


Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 

But  from  the  first  he  was  the  poet  of  sentiment, 
and  equally  a  craftsman  of  unerring  taste. 

I  more  than  half  recant  the  statement  that  Long 
fellow  was  not  a  poet  of  nature,  bethinking  myself  how 
justly  others  have  maintained  that  he  was  by  eminence 
our  poet  of  the  sea. 

His  song  was  a  household  service,  the  ritual  of  our 
feastings  and  mournings  ;  and  often  it  rehearsed  for  us 
the  tales  of  many  lands,  or,  best  of  all,  the  legends  of 
our  own. 


*m 

m 


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.  1954  LI 

5Sep'54BP 

SEP  1  8 1954 1 


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